Wake Up and Fight
by gaelicspirit
Summary: When Sam is attacked and marked for possession by a 'Hell Bearer,' Dean will stop at nothing to save his brother. Pain and exhaustion he's handled before; however, adding to that the horrific memories of Hell may be too much for this world-weary hunter.
1. The Attack

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. More's the pity. The lore in this story has been manipulated to suit my nefarious, storytelling purposes. You can thank **thruterryseyes** for the monster at the beginning of the story. She's got quite a knack for creating monsters.

**Spoilers:** Season 5, after 5.16, _Darkside of the Moon_. Anything goes up to that point.

**Warnings:** There is mention of torture (from Dean's tour in Hell) in this fic.

**a/n 1: **This story is unapologetically dramatic laced liberally with pain. Also there is angst. That pretty much sums up Season 5 for me.

This is for **masondixon** who requested something quite simple: Dean recovering from injuries at Bobby's. One road trip later, I'd turned it into this. I should give up thinking I'm going to just write one-shots. They always grow. **MD** – I hope this works for you. Everyone else? Same goes. *grins*

**a/n 2: **I owe a Very. Big. Thanks to two ladies, both of whom gave this story (and me) a sanity check and both of whom helped balance me when I let my perception of reality tip me over. **Terry**, if someone says there was a time in my life you weren't my friend, I'll call them a liar. **saberivojo**, you just 'get' me, man. Thank you both so much for your help.

**a/n 3**: I am honored to say that **secretlytodream** agreed to make a fanmix specifically for this story. I pulled together a music compilation that includes songs referenced in the story as well as songs that fit both Dean and the plot and she weaved in her own brand of magic. Stay tuned for the final chapter for a link to this mix!

Not only that? She created a trailer for this story. Head over to my LJ for a link (since fanficdotnet is so squirrely about those).

Enjoy! And be sure to tell her how amazing they are!

* * *

><p><em>There are scars that I've been hiding;<br>There are ghosts that I do not claim.  
>There are closets I do not care to open<br>But they open all the same._

_- "Come Undone," by Jackson Waters_

www

**Part One: The Attack**

_**Pierre, South Dakota**_

His ears were ringing.

He could smell the sulfuric stench from the dying flare; see the sputtering, neon-like glow of the flame. His lungs ached as he worked to cough out air trapped in shocked lungs. Sluggishly, he shook his head. His vision appeared to be on a five second delay.

Movement skittered to his left and he jerked, trying to force his uncooperative body to turn, face the danger. However, it wasn't the hellish image of the creature they were hunting that slid up next to him. Sam's face wavered in and out of focus, turned red by the dying light of the flare. He could see his brother's mouth moving, forming a word, a name…_his _name.

"—ou okay? Dean!"

"'m okay." Where was his gun? He needed his gun.

"Get up, c'mon. I gotcha."

Sam's grip was strong, his fingers wrapping around Dean's arm with hurried insistence.

"I got it," Dean snapped, struggling to his knees, pulling his arm away. The room swayed around him, sending him sideways. He thrust out a hand, bracing himself against the wall, his blunt fingers gripping the crumbling concrete.

"Did it cut you?"

His left thigh stung as if in reaction to Sam's question, causing Dean to hiss instinctively in reaction. Grunting, he answered with a curt, "Yeah." At least he thought he answered. He wasn't sure if his mouth obeyed him.

"Lemme see," Sam ordered just as the flare died.

"It's okay." Dean pushed Sam's searching hands away, slumping down against the wall again. Why was Sam there? Hadn't he sent him in the other direction? He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near this thing.

Dean's hip pressed against something hard—a familiar shape. Sliding his fingers along the dirty floor, he found the grip of his .45, the clip filled with silver bullets cross-hatched with the sigil that would end the Neresit's brief but deadly reign of terror. His breath returning, Dean grabbed his gun and splayed his other hand against the wall once more, plaster disintegrating at the edges from where he'd hit, using it to gain his feet.

"Dean—"

"Enough, Sam!" His voice was rough, sharp. The tone cut through the air and sent Sam back a step. "Where'd it go?"

"It's gone," Sam said. "It ran off after it slammed you against the wall."

Dean could barely see his brother in the murk of the abandoned hospital. With the flare gone, the lingering stench of the creature was returning and Dean pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. The air was heavy with the smell of wet fur and raw sewage, twisted together and made more potent by the confines of the abandoned building.

Blinking the dust from his lashes, Dean peered past Sam and down the dark hallway. "Why'd it run off?" he wondered aloud. He must've hit it with that first shot. It had to be regrouping, gathering its strength.

"Dean, if it cut you, we need to use the Holy Water," Sam said through clenched teeth. "You want to be a beacon to every demon in the area or something?"

"Slacking a bit aren't you, Research Boy?" Dean coughed, squaring his shoulders and steeling himself against the smell Sam seemed to have adjusted to. He reached into the bag at his feet and grabbed the last flare. "Neresits can't mark you unless they _bite_ you. And it didn't, so we're good."

Pulling the top of the flare free, Dean pounded the base against the wall, triggering the reddish flame. He pushed away from the wall, ignoring the dull ache behind his eyes. The bark of the Neresit was soundless except for the part where it vibrated the airwaves to such an extent it momentarily deafened and disoriented its victims. It had taken Dean longer than he'd expected to gather his wits in the wake of that bark.

Of course, cracking a concrete wall with his body probably didn't help matters any.

"Here, let me help," Sam said softly, reaching for the bag.

"I got it," Dean grumbled, stubbornly kicking the bag out of Sam's reach. "What are you doing over here, anyway?"

"I heard gunfire," Sam explained, straightening. "I ran back the way you said you were going and saw that thing slam into you—"

"Bastard's strong," Dean muttered. He caught Sam's searching eyes and turned slightly away, gingerly rubbing the back of his aching head. "Let's get after it."

"Just…_Jesus_, Dean. Give it a minute," Sam reached for his arm. "You just put a _dent _in a concrete wall. Take a breath."

"We don't _have_ a minute, Sam." He yanked his arm away, irritably. There was something suffocating about Sam holding him back. Even just a little bit. "We're in the thing's lair and it doesn't want us here."

"You knew where it was before we even got in here, didn't you?" Sam accused. "That's why you sent me to the other wing."

Ignoring Sam's question, Dean again peered down the hall that extended beyond them. "It's gotta be down that way." He turned started to make his way toward where he assumed the Neresit had run.

"Wait!" Sam reached out once more and grabbed Dean's arm.

Dean wrenched free of Sam's grasp, narrowing his eyes against the sting caused by the flare and their cloistered surroundings. Sam wasn't even supposed to _be_ here. He was supposed to be searching the other wing.

"You shouldn't have come over here, man," Dean growled. "I was trying to keep you—" _Safe_. The word stung the back of his throat and he turned away, starting down the hallway.

"Don't walk away from me, man!" Sam shouted.

At that, Dean half-turned, glancing askance at Sam's sweat and dirt-streaked face. "What, Sam? _What_?" His angry impatience filled the air between them will a palpable vibration.

Sam shifted his weight, reaching down to grab the weapons bag and sling the strap across his shoulder. He tilted his head slightly as he searched for words. "What are we even _doing_ here, Dean?"

Dean turned more fully to face his brother, eyebrow arched. "You forget about the monster dog that's running around, marking people for possession?" He turned away again, the matter closed as far as he was concerned.

"Why won't you talk to me?"

Dean groaned. "We're in the middle of a _job_, here, Sam."

"I _know_," Sam snapped.

Dean heard the bag hit the floor, the remaining weapons inside clattering dully against the cement. At the sound of Sam's heavy inhale of breath, Dean braced for one of his brother's ill-timed temper-tantrums. Sam had bad timing down to an art.

"Yesterday's job was that spirit in Des Moines. And two days ago it was the werewolf in Omaha," Sam said, voice tense as he moved closer.

"Yeah, Sam. All Hell's breaking loose. Or didn't you get the memo?" Dean turned, holding the flare up so that he could find the bag of weapons Sam had dropped. The stench of the monster was fading, which told him they were going to have to start hunting for the damn thing all over again.

Sam stepped forward, closing the space between them, stopping just short of touching him. "Why do you keep trying to leave me behind?"

That brought Dean's eyes up. "What?"

Sam's lips thinned. "You won't talk to me about what happened in…Heaven." He said the word as if it was too heavy for his tongue. "And you keep barreling through these hunts like you're on your own. Like you want to…get rid of me or something."

Dean looked away, down the hall where he was sure the Neresit had run after crashing into him and slamming him against the wall. Sam was blessedly quiet for a moment as Dean's thoughts clattered noisily inside his aching skull.

"I don't want to get rid of you," he found himself saying softly.

"Good." Sam's reply rode on a relieved sigh. "I meant what I said. We'll figure a way out of this."

"I already know a way out," Dean said, raising the sputtering flare. "We head that way and kill the bastard."

"Not _this_," Sam sighed, gesturing to their dirty surroundings. "The whole…vessel thing. Missing God. Apocalypse. Angels being dicks."

"Oh." Dean looked away, the hurt from an undefined sense of betrayal that gripped his heart the moment he'd heard the word 'vessel' having rippled to anger long ago. "_That_."

His amulet had been useless. God couldn't be found because He didn't want to be found. Humanity was screwed because the Winchesters wouldn't say 'yes.'

"I don't think there is a way out, Sam."

The flare was starting to die. They'd stood in one place too long; the pain in Dean's head was fading to a dull roar and his leg was itching. But Sam wasn't finished.

"There _is_. You just…you gotta…_believe_, Dean."

Anger surged up, hotter than the flare in Dean's hand.

"_Believe_?" Dean squared off in front of his brother, his jaw tight, the muscles flexing as he clenched his teeth against the torrent of words he wanted to fling at Sam. "In _what_? Cas can't help us," Dean continued, his voice rising as he gave in to his ire, stepping closer to his brother. Sam's spine straightened as he held his ground in the face of Dean's wrath. "The angels are ready to feed us to their freakin' war machine. God is sipping mai tai's on a beach somewhere. What is there left for me to believe in?"

Sam looked at him then, his eyes flinty. "Us."

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Us," he repeated, his tone layered with doubt and disbelief.

"Yes," Sam replied, nostrils flared, lips flat as he worked to hold back his emotion. He shoved a finger bluntly against Dean's sternum. "_You_ and _me_. You said it yourself, man. We keep each other human."

"Yeah, well," Dean tipped his head, his upper lip curling in a snarl. "That was before I realized that the best days of _your_ life were the worst days of _mine._"

"That's not fair." Sam flinched, stepping back slightly.

"You can say that again."

He hadn't meant to say it. He hadn't even realized he'd been thinking it. But as soon as the words were released, and he saw the flinch of pain cross his brother's features in the eerie light of the fading flare, Dean felt a surge of dark satisfaction settle in and cushion the shards of pain that had been bleeding him out since their little side trip to Heaven.

They stood another moment, the fading flare shimmering between them giving life to their volatile emotions.

Sam opened his mouth to speak—

The stench hit them first, overpowering, rolling bile up to the base of Dean's throat. He saw horror suck out all other expression from Sam's eyes as his brother realized what that smell meant. Dean felt his body shifting instinctively, dropping into a fighting stance as Sam half-turned to see behind himself.

The Neresit hadn't been down the hall as Dean had thought—or, if it had, it had circled around and was now charging them. The dog-like creature was massive—larger than any domesticated dog—muscles riding against bones as if they were a separate entity. Its feet were as large as Dean's hand, claws clattering against the cement floor as it came forward. Tiny eyes—pinpricks of reflected light—glowed red from the flare. Its mouth held a double row of razor-sharp teeth, the saliva dripping from its jowls as it opened up for a deafening, silent bark.

The air around the brothers shook in almost visible waves as they helplessly grabbed their ears in instinctive protection. Dean dropped the flare, the flame hitting the scattered debris lining the empty hall and catching it on fire. Dizzily, his eyes watering as smoke billowed around them, Dean saw Sam hit his knees as he stumbled sideways, crashing drunkenly against the wall and two decades of training kicked in, coalescing to muscle memory and forcing him to reach out toward his brother.

"Sam!" His voice was breathy, useless.

Sam, one hand pressed against the side of his head, crawled clumsily forward, reaching for the bag of weapons he'd dropped. Dean fumbled with the .45, working to bring it up and aim at one of the three images he saw of the creature, but before he could pull the trigger, the Neresit barked again.

Crying out from the disorienting bite of pain, Dean fell to his knees, realizing belatedly that he was pressing both his gun and hands against his ears. Blinking through the haze, he saw Sam curled on his side, one hand outstretched, fingers reaching for the bag.

In a heartbeat of time, filled with absolute clarity, Dean saw what was about to happen and how powerless he was to stop it. The godawful stench of the creature pressed close around them and the Neresit launched, landing on Sam's curled form.

The world around Dean seemed to trip into overdrive as his mind slowed everything down, turning time backwards, off-shooting into different variables. If they'd not stopped have a heart-to-heart in the abandoned hallway…if they'd kept moving…kept searching…if Sam had stayed in the other hall as Dean had _told_ him to and not insisted on coming after his brother….

Sam's scream of pain cut through the air two beats before the crash of bullets exploded from Dean's gun, slamming into the side of the beast. Dean was yelling a wordless torrent of indignant sound as he crawled forward, his right arm outstretched, hand fisted around the butt of his gun, the weapon becoming a part of him as he continued firing. He reached the mass of muscle that was the Neresit, the beast totally obscuring Sam from Dean's sight, and put the muzzle of his .45 against the creature's temple, firing the last two silver bullets point-blank.

For the longest draw of seconds Dean had felt since Cold Oak, nothing moved. He heard only the rasp of his own ragged, frenzied breathing and the crackle of fire as the debris around them was consumed.

And then Sam groaned.

"Sammy?" Dean croaked, growling with effort as he struggled to push the mass of the dead Neresit off of his brother.

Sam was still partially curled to his side, his legs splayed out as if he'd been dropped from the sky, his arms folded against his chest. He groaned again as Dean gently rolled him to his back.

"Sam?" Dean dropped his gun and cupped his hand against the back of Sam's neck.

Sam's eyes flew open and Dean saw the panic there, turning him just in time. Sam retched, the bile blending with the dark blood spilling freely from the body of the creature. Dean held Sam's neck, keeping his head up and angled, and gripped his shoulder in support.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed. "I gotcha."

"Gah," Sam gasped, sagging against Dean's hold. Dean half-way cradled him against his good leg; there would probably be more of the same. Sam's body always reacted the same way to severe pain.

"Lemme look, lemme see." Dean kept his voice calm, though his heart was shaking against his ribcage so hard he was sure Sam could hear the bones rattle. He ran his hand down Sam's torso, going cold as he felt the unmistakable slick of blood.

"Okay, Sammy, it's gonna be okay." The words were empty yet necessary, for one of them at least.

"Arm," Sam gasped, his lashes fluttering as he fought to stay conscious. He pinned Dean with a look, his eyes bleeding pain until Dean couldn't catch his breath. "Right arm."

The fire was growing, flames crawling closer, following the path of debris. Dean turned Sam's right arm over, seeing only the mess of his brother's mangled jacket and the dark stain of blood. The fire caught the coat of the Neresit, the stench of burning hair adding to the toxic air pressing around them. Knowing he needed to move fast, Dean grappled with Sam's weight, pulling his brother against his chest as he reached for the bag of weapons Sam hadn't been able to grab.

Slinging the strap across his head and shoulders, he shook Sam slightly.

"You still with me, brother?"

Sam groaned slightly. "Gonna be sick again."

"You can be sick later," Dean grunted, balancing on the balls of his feet and gripping Sam under the arms. "First, we gotta get the hell outta Dodge."

Sam tried to help, his long legs wobbly and uncooperative.

"C'mon, man, you can do this," Dean panted, slinging Sam's good arm over his shoulders and pushing upright, hauling Sam with him. His brother was heavy and almost too tall for Dean to support. He staggered to the side, stumbling as he tried to avoid the fire, the wound in his thigh choosing that moment to remind him of its existence with a sharp stab that stole his air for a moment.

Sam coughed as the smoke hit him, then found his footing and gripped Dean's shirt with his wounded arm.

"That's it, Sasquatch," Dean encouraged, breathless from the effort. "Need you to pull your weight around here."

The Neresit was ablaze behind them. They coughed, gagging on the smell of bubbling, burning flesh, making their way down the deserted hall, their path illuminated by the firelight. Dean saw the main entrance to the abandoned building on his right and began to drag Sam forward. The night air was intoxicatingly fresh and the drop in temperature from the fire they'd just escaped seemed to revive them both. Dean felt Sam pull slightly away as they crossed the threshold.

He was able to haul Sam half-way across the weed-infested parking lot before Sam gave in to the nausea and doubled over, his stomach muscles contracting violently against Dean's bracing arm as he heaved. Dean held him, turning his face slightly away to grab great breaths of fresh air.

When Sam was able to stop, his body sagging, Dean dragged them both to the side of the lot, slumping against the chain-linked fence that surrounded the abandoned building. Security lights were positioned roughly every ten feet—half of them having long since blown out—and shed a small amount of light on his efforts.

Before he'd even lowered Sam to the ground, Dean was bellowing for help, his voice smoke-seared and ragged.

"Cas!"

Sam's eyes were closed, his face fisted, hair sticking to his sweat-streaked skin. Dean crouched in front of him, dragging the bag from his shoulders and dropping it next to Sam's form.

"CAS! I need you, dammit!"

"He can't hear you…," Sam gasped. "Can't f-find us…."

Dean's hands hadn't stopped moving. "Yes, he can," he assured Sam in a hushed tone as he pulled Sam's ruined coat away from the wound. "He brought us here; he knows where we are _or he needs a fuckin' GPS!_" He lifted his dirt-streaked face to scream the last at the empty, black sky, a full cover of clouds obscuring his view even of the stars.

Grabbing the flask of Holy Water, he unscrewed the cap and without preamble, poured the contents over the rows of puncture wounds marking a perfect crescent shape—top and bottom—on Sam's right forearm.

Sam screamed, the sound gripping Dean's gut and turning it inside out. He instinctively tried to jerk his arm away from the thing causing him more pain, but Dean held tight, keeping Sam's arm in place and pouring the blessed water over the numerous puncture wounds.

"I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry. I gotta do this, okay? I gotta do this. Just hang in there, hang on, okay? You're doing great. You're doing great, Sammy."

Dean's mouth formed the words; he felt his lips move, heard his voice uttering reassurances, but he was separate from himself, standing next to their huddled forms, watching himself grip the flask, steam billowing up from the wounds, Sam writhing as if it were acid.

"CAS!" Dean bellowed once more, feeling dizzy as he came back to himself, blinking as Sam panted for air, his heels digging into the concrete in an instinctive move to get away, even as he fought to hold himself still.

"Dammit," Dean whispered, a half-sob. "Where are you?"

"Dean."

Dean jerked, looking to his right and suddenly Castiel was there. The angel looked harried and disheveled—more so than usual—but he was _there_. Dean was so flooded with relief that if he'd been the type of person who thought to utter a prayer of thanks, it would have been that instead of a curse balanced on the edge of his lips.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Dean shouted, tossing the empty Holy Water flask back into the gaping duffel. "You need to beam us outta here and heal him. Now."

Castiel's eyes were on Dean's face, staring at him as if he were searching for something a level deeper than anything Dean willingly exposed.

"Cas!" Dean snapped, trying to force the angel to obey by the mere urgency in his tone. "That big-ass demon dog bit Sam, okay? You gonna help us or what?"

"You're bleeding," Castiel pointed out, his eyes shifting from Dean's face to his bent leg.

Dean glanced down, feeling the pain sharply. He curled his fingers into the chain link fence above Sam's head and pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm fine. It's _Sam_."

Crouching down, Castiel peered at Sam's mangled arm. Dean watched as the angel lifted Sam's hand gently, turning the shaking limb over. Sam wasn't in danger of bleeding to death, but Dean didn't like the look of the wound. The puncture marks were already swollen and puffy, blood seeping weakly to blend with the Holy Water clinging to the hairs on Sam's arm.

"I can't…." Castiel said softly.

Dean's frown was fierce, though Castiel was still looking at Sam. "Can't what?"

Castiel looked over his shoulder at Dean, a world of sadness engulfing his eyes. "I cannot heal him."

"What?" Dean was incredulous. "_Can't_? Or _won't_?"

Castiel laid Sam's arm across his belly and stood. He kept his eyes lowered as if he were weighing his next words.

"I mean, I know you wouldn't heal me after Allistair—"

"It has nothing to do with you, or with Sam," Castiel said, silencing Dean's bitter protest with a look. "I have _rebelled_, Dean. I am not…I am not myself."

"Oh, so you can fly us to some random job, but you can't heal us when it goes south?" Dean growled, unconsciously gripping his wounded thigh.

"It's hard to explain," Castiel said, his face tight, lips almost white as he pulled them against his teeth. "I am still learning my limitations."

Flinging his hands from his sides in frustration, Dean turned back to Sam, meeting his brother's hooded, pain-filled eyes. "Well, that's just…that's just…figgin' _swell_, Cas. Remind me to ask you about your _limitations_ the next time you tell us there's a monster dog on the loose."

Castiel suddenly looked up and around. "We've not much time."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean snapped. "That freak marked him—"

"He will be protected from possession," Castiel interrupted, staring once more at Dean's face, peeling back layers in a glance. "You both have the sigil on your skin."

"The sig—you mean our tattoos?" Dean asked, glancing down at Sam when he heard his brother groan. "Our tat's will protect him from this?"

Castiel frowned and the expression of doubt shot fear deep into Dean's heart.

"It will protect you from possession, but—" He stopped, his head tilting as if he were listening. "You need to get Sam out of here."

Dean shifted his hands away from his sides. "I'm ready when you are, man."

"I cannot take you and hold them off at the same time."

"Hold them off?" Dean frowned, looking around, uncertainty turning his sweaty skin clammy.

"Take your brother out of here as fast you can," Castiel ordered, grabbing Dean's shoulders.

Dean's head spun, his friend's voice roughening, bending, becoming someone else's. Someone long dead. Someone who changed his life with words just like those. Words with the same weight of meaning.

"Now, Dean. Go!"

"Cas—"

"Find a car, get somewhere safe," Castiel continued. "You will need to follow the ritual to keep him sane."

"Sane?" Dean realized he was gripping Castiel's arms as if for balance. The air around him seemed to be shaking, much like the effects of the Neresit. "What the hell do you mean, _sane_?"

"The creature's poison will blend with his bloodstream and act as a beacon for demonic possession—"

"But you just said his tat—"

"Listen to me, Dean!" Castiel bellowed, his voice crashing against Dean's wounded ears, reminding him of the power even a limited angel possessed. "Sam's blood is not like other humans. It has been changed through contact with demon blood. They will not be able to possess him, but they can still destroy him."

Sam suddenly began to shake, tearing Dean's attention from Castiel's grave expression.

"Sammy?" Dean dropped down next to his brother, one hand on Sam's chest, the other reaching for the back of Sam's neck, trying to still the tremors, when he realized that the air _was_ shaking. Not only that, but the ground had begun to shake, rattling the security lights and rippling the chain-linked fence.

"What the hell?" He whispered, grabbing for the duffel bag and slinging the strap over his head and shoulder before pulling out the sawed-off shotgun. It was filled with rock salt, but instinct told him it was better than nothing. He stood, wincing as his leg protested.

"There's a break in the fence," Castiel was saying. "Two yards south of you. Take Sam. Get out of here."

Dean looked up, following Castiel's eye line. It was as if the clouds turned to oil and had begun to writhe. Cords of the slicked smoke twisted around each other and moved toward them with frightening speed.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, eyes wide on the twisting smoke he knew to be an onslaught of demons heading their way. The ground began to shake violently, sending Sam's slumped form sideways and teetering Castiel and Dean off-balance.

A low roar seemed to emanate from the cloud as if showing the teeth of a monster. Dean cocked the shotgun. "Okay. Now it's a party," he whispered, his mouth dry, eyes darting everywhere at once.

Sam shouted, a wordless cry that grabbed Dean by the heart. He looked over and saw that his brother's back was bowed, his neck tight, as if someone was trying to pull him upright by the ribcage. Dean was next to Sam before he remembered moving, reaching for him helplessly, unsure how to stop this but needing to all the same.

He was bent over Sam when the cloud of demons hit.

The smoke crashed into them, rolling them over in a tangle of limbs, stealing breath and replacing it with screams. Dean was slammed against the pavement, his forehead bouncing off the blacktop and shooting pain through his head. The swarm pushed him along the concrete. Sam was beneath him, then beside him, then pressing down on top of him, suffocating him with his weight.

Searching for access, angered when they couldn't find one, the demons continued to attack, their snake-like tentacles jabbing, seeking, hurting. Dean felt as if he were being branded each time a snake of smoke struck him. It was like iced fire, searing him and marking him, tearing down his defenses.

He'd felt it before, he knew. He'd felt it for years. And he'd almost been lost to it.

Sam's cries of protest snapped Dean back to the present and he blindly fired the shotgun. The demons retreated a moment, rearing back as if they'd been struck—which, Dean knew, they had. Breathless from pain, blood streaming from a cut on his head to blur his left eye, Dean roared in anger, firing the other barrel and pushing the smoke back further. He shoved Sam's weight away from him and sat up shakily, confused for a moment why the demons didn't renew their attack.

And then he saw Castiel.

The angel stood among the throng of the demon smoke, his arms outstretched, wings spread. Dean gaped. He'd only seen Castiel this way once before: the day he met him. Wiping blood from his eye, Dean pushed to his knees as he watched his friend hold the demons away.

"Limitations my ass," Dean breathed.

Castiel was magnificent.

And he was also shaking.

"Go," Castiel ordered, his voice tight.

Dean felt an urge to look to his left, as if an invisible hand grabbed him by the chin. He saw the break in the fence that Castiel had referred to. The attack had shoved him and Sam down the lot until they were level with their escape route.

"_Take him, Dean."_

Dean jerked, startled as he realized Castiel's voice was in his head. It wasn't the first time a voice not his own had echoed in his head, but where the others had felt like a rape of his mind, this felt like a caress, a whisper. So soft he wasn't sure what he'd heard until Cas said, _"Get him safe."_

"What about you?" Dean's question was reactive, instinctive. _"CAS!" _He felt as if he were thinking in capital letters, the name heavy in his mind.

"_Go."_ Castiel's orders left no room for argument.

Dean tucked his arms beneath Sam's shoulders, hauling his brother up against him. "C'mon, Sammy. Need your help here, man."

Sam was still trembling, but Dean felt him rouse enough to get his legs under himself and push upward. Balancing Sam against him, Dean slung his brother's arm across his shoulder. Looking back at Castiel, Dean felt the image of the angel standing as a shield, keeping a veritable herd of demons from mauling them, would be forever seared into his brain.

Sam groaned as Dean plowed them through the opening in the fence and out into the deserted street. Forcing Sam beyond his waning strength, Dean kept up a litany of reassurance as they staggered forward, searching for a car to get them as far away from the abandoned hospital, dead Neresit, and demon hoard as possible.

"I gotcha, Sammy. I'm not gonna let them get ya, man, I promise." He was panting, his words thin, breathy as his eyes roamed the empty street, never ceasing in their search. "I'm gonna get us outta here…just need to find a car…find a car and…head to…Bobby's." He almost grinned as the solution blazed across his mind. "We'll head to Bobby's. Get you in the panic room. Get you safe. Figure out this ritual."

"Dean," Sam groaned, his legs wilting.

"No, no, _NO_, Sam!" Dean readjusted his grip, tightening his hold. The muscles in his back screamed from abuse and his leg flared hot. He could feel fresh blood running down the inside of his jeans from the cuts on his thigh. "You are not allowed to pass out on me. You understand? You do NOT pass out on me. Not yet. I'll tell you when. Understand me? _Sam?_"

"Yeah," Sam gasped, forcing himself forward, his head lolling sideways, resting against Dean's.

Dean blinked blood from his eyes, wanting to reach up and wipe the sting away, but afraid to let go of Sam. He felt his head spinning from the fight they'd just survived. He needed to get them out of there and get them both fixed up before he could figure out this ritual or neither of them would be able to stay conscious long enough to save Sam from insanity.

The roar of the demons, and the earthquake-like shake of the ground, was fading the further he dragged them. His body was trembling from effort, the feeling of being separated from himself sweeping over him once more. Every thought was peppered with a curse, his patience gone. He didn't even have the energy to continue his litany of reassuring epithets to keep Sam conscious. The broken, weed-infested sidewalk was starting to look really appealing as a resting point when he saw it.

A car.

Sort of.

It was a rusted-out orange Nova, but it had four wheels, was parked in front of a dark house, and was practically begging them to take it for a ride.

"You see that? You see that, Sam? We got us a ride outta here."

Sam didn't reply. If he wasn't at least partially holding himself upright, Dean would have been willing to bet he was unconscious. Holding his breath as he dragged them close to the rear driver's side door, Dean tried the handle and exhaled when the hinges creaked loudly as he opened it. Peering in, he saw trash, wadded up bags from take-out foot, and torn copies of _Auto Week_ strewn across the back seat and floorboards.

He reached across Sam to sweep the seat clean, then eased him inside so that his brother lay on his left side, cradling his still-bleeding arm. Dropping the duffel on top of the trash, Dean grabbed a wax pencil from the bottom of the bag. Leaving Sam's legs hanging out of the car door, Dean quickly climbed up onto the seat and as fast as his shaking hands would allow, drew a Devil's Trap on the roof of the Nova.

As a precaution, he drew another protective symbol on the trunk and again on the hood. Returning to Sam, he dropped the pencil in to the bag, shoved Sam's legs inside and shut the door. Making his way to the front seat, Dean pulled out his knife and ducked under the steering column, cutting the wires free. He was short of breath as he climbed behind the wheel, shoving aside a myriad of travel books, more magazines, and a canvass tool belt.

"C'mon, c'mon," Dean muttered as he worked to spark the vehicle to life. With his luck, the car would become a protected coffin rather than an escape route. "_Start_, you rusted bitch!"

With that, the Nova coughed to life.

"Atta baby." Dean half-grinned, pulling the door closed and yanking the gear into drive.

He used the cuff of his shirt to wipe the blood from his eyes, flinching as he inadvertently touched the wound on his forehead. Hazarding a glance in his rear view mirror at what now looked more like storm clouds than demonic travelers, he roared away from the curb, taking the first corner on two wheels, and found a barren stretch of road.

"Sam?" He glanced over his shoulder at his brother's curled form. "Hey, man, you with me?"

"'m here." Sam's voice was raspy, slurred. Dean frowned, turning his head to the side as he tried to pick up the words more clearly. "Feel's like…like my blood's burning…_God_…Dean, this friggin' _hurts_…."

Sam jerked and twisted on the seat, his words stabbing into Dean, shoving to the surface memories he'd spent countless nights burying. He tried to take a breath and found his lungs rebellious and uncooperative. In retaliation, Dean buried the odometer needle, tearing down the rough asphalt road, hoping that no random deer or other animal chose that moment to peek its nose out of the open space on either side of them.

"Hang in there, Sammy," he implored, glancing at his brother in the mirror. "Just need to get a little space between us and them."

Sam only groaned in reply and Dean worried his lower lip with his teeth, searching for a safe place to pull over take a better look at Sam's wound. Several minutes later, he reached a turn off. He left the car running and twisted around in his seat, ignoring the shriek of torn skin against his ruined jeans.

Sam was turned away, his face buried into the vinyl of the back seat, his chest and shoulders rising and falling in time with his rapid breathing. His right arm was cradled against his chest and Dean saw that the wound had stopped bleeding, Sam's long-sleeved shirt had stuck to it, acting as a bandage.

Dean reached out on instinct, needing to check Sam's breathing, pulse, the heat of his skin. But half way to Sam's shoulder, he inexplicably froze. He suddenly couldn't draw a breath, couldn't quell the tremor as his insides shook. Sam turned his head slowly to face Dean, sweat covering his face, his hair sticking to his skin. Angry red scuff marks from their roll across the pavement framed one eye and crossed the bridge of his nose.

In the dimly lit car, Dean saw the chaos in his brother's eyes.

"Jesus _Christ_. It's burning, Dean," Sam rasped, pain tripping through his words and turning them into a hiss. "Swear to God, my blood's burning!" The fingers of his left hand curled into claws as he raked at his wounded arm, his chest, trying to find a way to stop whatever it was he was feeling.

"No, man," Dean said, his mouth so dry he almost choked on the reassurance his words were meant to be. "It's not. _Nothing_ is burning." He curling his shaking hand into a fist then forced himself to reach out and grab Sam's hand, stopping his brother from doing further damage to himself. "You're gonna be okay, you hear me? I'm gonna fix this."

Sam clenched his teeth, closing his eyes with a low growl and Dean moved his hand to grip Sam's shoulder. He felt his brother relax slightly under the weight of his hand and whatever fears that had held him back before evaporated. He curled his fingers, digging gently into the meat of Sam's arm, forcing his brother to look at him once more.

"I promise you, Sam," he said quietly, firmly. "I _promise_ I'm gonna fix this."

Not waiting for Sam's reply, Dean turned around in the seat, pulled out his cell phone, and steered them back onto the road. It took a few minutes to get to an area with a strong enough signal but the moment he had more than two bars of reception, he called Bobby.

"_Boy, I'm buying you a watch for your next birthday,"_ Bobby greeted him gruffly, _"if you live that long. You know it's midnight?"_

"I'm about forty-five minutes outside your place, Bobby," Dean said, trying in vain to calm his racing thoughts and convey the necessary information to get Sam help. "Need your panic room."

"_What for?"_ All gruffness vanished from Bobby's tone and Dean felt his eyes burn with relief. _"Is it Sam?"_

"Yeah, but…it's not what you're thinking. Exactly," Dean amended, taking the next turn on the back route to Singer Salvage. "Cas took us to a job. It didn't go as planned."

"_Do they ever?"_

"Sam was bit by a Neresit."

"_What?"_

Dean pulled the phone slightly away from his ear in reaction to Bobby's outraged yelp. "Not helping the headache, man."

"_Cas sent you two after a…a…Hell Bearer?"_

"Yes," Dean snapped. "That's not important. We got the bastard."

"_But not before it marked Sam."_

"Right—and Cas said there's a ritual—"

"_Dean."_ Bobby's voice was a warning. Dean's stomach coiled tight. _"This ain't just any ritual. You're not gonna like this one."_

"Well, you can tell me about it when we get there."

"_Son, I'm not at home."_ Bobby sounded almost sad—as if he knew that his words would slip ice through Dean's veins. _"I'm on a job. In Illinois."_

"Son of a _bitch!"_ Dean didn't bother to curb his frustration. His head was pounding, his forehead wouldn't stop bleeding into his eye, and his leg felt as though it was on fire.

"_Couldn't be helped,"_ Bobby apologized. _"'Sides, I thought you said Cas took you on this job. Why ain't he helping you?"_

"Bobby, for all I know, Cas is dead," Dean growled, the worry behind the words scorching his throat. "I left him holding off a freakin'…gaggle of demons."

"_What? Why? Neresit marks victims for one demon…not hundreds."_

"Yeah, well, they were coming after Sam," Dean snapped. "Sam and his freakin' special demon-enhanced blood."

"_Balls,"_ Bobby cursed.

"You got that right." Dean blinked his blurring eyes, finding the road once more with the dim beam of the Nova's headlights. "Forget it. I'll just get him into your panic room where they can't—"

"_Dean,"_ Bobby interrupted.

"Shit, Bobby. What? _What?_" He was tapped. One more piece of bad news….

"_Rufus has something in the panic room. Some kind of witch. He's there now, waiting for me to get back so we can...y'know, vanquish the bitch."_

"God_dammit_." Dean pounded the steering wheel with the heel of his free hand. "Anything else you want to tell me? You burn all your books? Sell off your protective charms?"

"_Listen,"_ Bobby said, apparently picking up on the fact that Dean was about to bench him for life if he didn't give him something positive. _"I know what book the ritual is in. You get there, get Sam inside, and call me. I've…got some tricks up my sleeve."_

"Enough tricks to keep a bazillion Sam-thirsty demons away?"

"_More than enough,"_ Bobby reassured him. _"I'll be there in eight hours. You can last eight hours."_

"I hope so, man."

"_Rufus is there,"_ Bobby reminded him. _"He'll help you."_

"Bobby…." Dean couldn't hide the plea captured in the whisper of that name.

"_You just get to the house, Dean. Just get Sam there and we'll get through this together."_

Dean closed his phone, shoving it into the pocket of his coat. He looked over his shoulder at Sam, unsure if his brother had registered any of that conversation.

"We're gonna be okay, Sammy," he said to his brother's silhouette. "You just stay with me, okay?"

Sam's silence chilled him. Ignoring the pull on his wounded leg, Dean shifted, pressing the accelerator to the floor, and reached over the seat. His fingers found Sam's heated face; after a moment, he was rewarded by the feel of his brother's good hand touching his, wrapping fingers around his hand and gripping tight.

"I'm gonna fix this," Dean whispered.

www

**Coming soon...the first four hours**.

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><p><strong>an**: Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying thus far.

There are four parts to this story and I'll post a chapter every other day, the final chapter coming on Tuesday, October 4th. Along with that chapter a link to the fanmix designed by **secretlytodream** will be included. Come back to check it out!


	2. The First Four Hours

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** see Part 1

**Warnings:** There is mention of torture (from Dean's tour in Hell) in this fic.

**a/n: **Thank you so much for your comments! Your feedback is one of the greatest reasons for writing fanfic…and has me wanting to continue to write stories. I will reply to each one, I promise. I'm focusing on getting the story posted on the every-other-day schedule, so I may be late in replying to you, but please keep the feedback coming.

Some of your questions will be answered here…and more will probably be raised. Hopefully by the time all is said and done, you'll have been entertained and your curiosity satisfied.

* * *

><p><em>"One should . . . be able to see things as hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise."<em>  
>— F. Scott Fitzgerald<p>

**Part Two: The First Four Hours**

_**Hour One**_

It was the longest hour of Dean's life, driving the back roads to Bobby's house.

Sam's muffled groans and stifled curses filled in the tense quiet of the rusted, unfamiliar Nova. The car pulled to the right, forcing Dean to hold the wheel tightly, keeping them barreling down the empty stretch of blacktop, his eyes anxiously scanning the horizon, the rear view, the side windows.

The demons could come at them from anywhere, at any time. And didn't know if the markings on the car would be enough to keep Sam safe.

The moon hung as bright and wide as the Cheshire Cat's grin when he pulled the stolen car to a stop in the scrap yard next to Bobby's house. The smell of night and autumn, rust and fuel drifted in through the opened window and Dean breathed deep, anchoring himself in the familiarity. Shutting off the car, he peered out through the windshield one last time, eying the retreating clouds for any sign of writhing.

"Wherever you are, Cas," he whispered aloud, "Thanks for buying us a little time."

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Sam's eyes were closed, his teeth chattering as if he were freezing, sweat betraying that image as it ran in tiny rivers down his face to collect in his hair. He'd finally gone quiet after muttering disconnected thoughts, curses, and pleas throughout their escape. The only thing that had kept Dean from pulling over into a nearby field had been the sound of Sam's rough breathing and the knowledge that they'd find help at Bobby's.

Dean gripped the handle of the door, hesitating slightly, afraid to leave the protection of the Devil's Trap-adorned car.

"Here goes nothin'," he muttered, grabbing the opened door frame to pull free of the car.

No scream of demonic fury reached his ears, but his wounded leg shook beneath him, threatening to give way. Forcefully ignoring it, he grabbed the weapons bag, then opened the back door of the Nova and put the palm of his hand against Sam's hot face.

"Hey, man," Dean said, patting Sam's cheek gently. "Need to get you inside."

Sam groaned and Dean crouched, tucking his hands under Sam's shoulders and shoving him more or less upright on the seat. Sam gasped at the movement.

"Stop! Stop," he protested. "_Please_, just…just leave me alone, Dean."

"No way, man." Dean shook his head. "We're getting you inside."

"God, this hurts," Sam moaned, closing his eyes briefly then wincing as Dean tugged once more on him, trying to move him to the edge of the seat. "Shit! Dean, stop. _STOP_!"

"I know your arm hurts, Sam—"

"_Everything_…," Sam whispered. "Everything hurts…. It hurts to _breathe._"

Sam blinked up at him and Dean's heart folded in at the corners. Even after all they'd been through, all they'd learned – after Hell and Heaven and sorrow and death – Sam could still manage to look five years old. Pain swam in Sam's eyes and Dean rolled his lips against his teeth as he found the voice he knew he'd need to get Sam moving.

"Listen to me," Dean said, his voice low, eyes serious. "You listening?"

Sam swallowed, his mouth thinning as he pulled in a shaky breath. His eyes dropped away from Dean's face.

"You are going to be fine. You're tougher than this."

"Dean, I—"

"No." Dean's voice was a bark of sound in the night. He gently grabbed the back of Sam's neck, gripping it with just enough force that his brother met his eyes. "You are _tougher_ than this thing. It's _not_ gonna beat you."

The cautious hope in Sam's eyes came close to breaking Dean's resolve. _You gotta believe…in us._

"_We're_ not gonna let it," Dean promised. For a moment he felt lightheaded with helplessness. He gripped the worn, rusted edges of the car's door frame, steadying his eyes on Sam's slumped form. "We didn't make it this far…through all this…_shit_…just to get beaten by a little…dog bite."

His heart felt like a coiled spring, shaking and bouncing in his chest, rattled by memories too recent to ignore and anchored by those too constant to suppress. They couldn't catch a break. It was all supposed to be over with his sacrifice—Sam was supposed to be safe with Dean in Hell. But time and destiny wouldn't leave them alone and now with angels fighting the tug-o-war of the century over them, showing them a Heaven that was simply a different version of Hell….

Dean wavered, dropping his head, pulling in a slow, steady breath as he braced his hand on Sam's neck.

For a brief moment, huddled in the shadow of a stranger's car at the edge of a graveyard of metal, Dean swam through the sting of Heaven and the suffocation of Hell to find himself mentally at a place he'd never willingly left: next to Sam.

He'd lost himself along the way, left part of his soul on the rack, dripping from the end of Alistair's knife. He may have been pulled from perdition by an angel of the Lord, but he was walking wounded, hollow in so many ways, unworthy, unable, unsure.

But in _this_ moment he wasn't a vessel, he wasn't a righteous man.

He was simply Sam's big brother and he knew what he had to do.

"Okay," Sam choked out, bringing Dean's eyes up. He was looking at Dean with a worried, anxious expression, obviously unsure what to do with his pain, with Dean's silence. "Okay…okay, I can do this. I'm sorry…sorry, Dean."

"You got nothing to be sorry for, kiddo," Dean muttered, pulling Sam close to him and slinging his brother's arm across his shoulder. "You didn't ask for this life."

He wasn't sure where it had come from, this honesty, but the words drew a reaction from Sam. Looking at Dean in surprise, Sam shoved himself free of the car, clinging to the door for balance as the motion stole his breath. Dean didn't take the words back, didn't explain. He looked at Sam, waited for color to return to his brother's lips, then nodded once.

"You ready?"

"Wh-what's the plan?" Sam gasped, hesitating.

"Get inside. Get Rufus. Get the ritual." Dean's words were punctuated by short breaths as he limped forward, Sam's lanky form draped across him, their bodies shaking from the effort. "Get you demon-free."

"I can feel them," Sam said, his voice reedy. "Like…fingers…claws under my skin."

Dean ignored the jump in his gut at this news. It was too familiar, that feeling, those words. He knew exactly what Sam was talking about. But he couldn't do anything about the pain Sam was in without the ritual.

Until then, well, he was John Winchester's son, after all. Maybe he could use this.

"Can you tell how close they are? How much time we've got?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

"Can you tell…who it is?" Dean swallowed, the icy fear that Lucifer would use this moment, this break in their defenses, to find them, work them over…chip away at Sam, had him clenching his jaw tight enough to break teeth.

"There's like…whispers. Voices. In my head. Talking over each other."

Sam's disjointed reply both worried and reassured Dean. If it had been Lucifer with this mob, if he had a bead on Sam, Dean was pretty sure they'd know about it.

"Well, ignore them," Dean ordered as they reached Bobby's door. "You don't listen to anyone but me. You got that?"

It wasn't until that moment he realized it was strange no one had come to the door already; the Nova hadn't exactly made a quiet entrance to the salvage yard. The folded paper tucked into the edge of the window frame in the center of the door had Dean's stomach dropping. He reached out, his blood-smeared fingers leaving tracks on the door frame as he grabbed the note.

_Singer – _

_You're out of angelica. Found a guy to hook us up. Witch is in panic room. I'll be back in 24. DO NOT GO IN WITHOUT ME._

– _Rufus_

"Son of a _BITCH_!" Dean raged, balling the paper up and throwing it to the ground. They were alone in this fight.

Sam sagged against him.

"No…no no no no…c'mon, Sammy." Dean scrambled to get under his brother and keep him upright as Sam went to dead weight. Sam's head lolled, his face pale in the thin moonlight, eyes closed.

"_FUCK._"

Forced to lower Sam to the ground, Dean tried the door handle, unsurprised when it didn't budge. Taking a breath, he patted his pockets, his mind buzzing, trying to remember if Bobby kept a spare key—

The ringtone of his phone caused him to jump.

He barked into the receiver, "What!"

"_Dean?"_

"Bobby." He heard the relief in his voice.

"_You at the house?"_

"Yes," Dean snapped. "But Rufus isn't."

"_What?"_

"Left a witch in the panic room, though. So we've got that going for us." Dean tucked the phone under his chin, finding his lock pick tucked into his inside pocket, and crouched down to work the lock. His leg began to shake.

"_Balls,"_ Bobby muttered. _"I was counting on him to…. Okay, forget it. We'll figure this out. Dumbass shoulda just called me…."_

Bobby continued to mutter curses at his absent friend. Dean could hear the sound of the road humming loudly through the phone as he worked to unlocked Bobby's door. The older hunter had rigged his lock, making it infinitely more difficult to pick. He tried to crouch, but the muscles under the torn skin began to spasm with fatigue, forcing him to his knees as he worked.

"_You see the demons yet?"_

"Not yet," Dean said tightly, one of his lock picks caught between his lips.

"_Ya…think _he's_ with 'em?"_

Dean felt his heart shiver; the fact that Lucifer was at the top of Bobby's panic list, too, had him warring between fear and anger that this being had so much power.

"No," he answered curtly, lacking the energy to elaborate. He finally heard the lock click and exhaled with relief.

"_You get Sam in the Devil's Trap?"_ Bobby was saying.

"Just getting inside, man," Dean panted, holding the door open with his hip and turning around to reach for Sam.

"_Get him in the center of the sigil and don't let him out of it, no matter what,"_ Bobby ordered. _"Then go to the kitchen. Under the sink you'll find a red lever. Pull it—but remember, once you do, you're only safe when you're inside the house."_

Dean gripped Sam by the collar of his jacket, dragging his limp body through the door. "What did you—"

The moonlight suddenly flickered and Dean looked up. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me."

"_What?"_

"Demons," Dean gasped. "Call you back."

"_De—"_

Dropping Sam on the floor, Dean shoved the phone in his pocket and kicked the door shut in one move. Blinking blurry eyes through the curtained window, he saw the rolling, seething mass of smoke seem to surround the moon as if disoriented. Running the back of his hand across his eyes, he turned from the window to face his brother's sprawled form in the dark of Bobby's hallway.

Sam was trembling as though a live wire had been shot through his system. His neck was taut, his lips shivering. And a strange, grayish pattern seemed to be climbing his throat, covering his cheeks in thin, branch-like markings.

_Move_, Dean ordered himself.

The weapon bag pulling at his sore muscles, Dean stepped over Sam and leaned down to grip him from beneath the shoulders, pulling him backwards, Sam's boots thumping noisily on the wooden floor.

As they made their way into the study, an unearthly screech seemed to roll up from the bowels of the house. Dean flinched, looking around, confused as he tried to pinpoint the source. He could tell it wasn't from the demon cloud; it was definitely _inside_ the house. Lying Sam down on the floor of the study, Dean switched on the light and then shoved at Bobby's desk with all his strength, moving the weighty furniture away from the center of the Devil's Trap Sam had painted on Bobby's ceiling several years ago.

The noise of moving the desk seemed to trigger whatever was screeching once more and Dean winced, covering his ears, and yelled back in helpless retaliation.

"Shut _UP_!"

The screeching stopped for the moment and Dean took a breath. Sparing a glance at Sam to reassure himself that his brother was still breathing, Dean hurried to the couch Bobby kept beneath the window and dragged it to rest beneath the center of the Devil's Trap. Glancing up, he double-checked to make sure Bobby had repaired it from the time Meg – while possessing Sam – had broken it. Plaster patchwork and fresh paint guaranteed that Sam should be safe—from direct demonic attack, at least.

"Hey, man," Dean said gently, crouching in front of his unconscious brother. "Sammy, c'mon, open your eyes."

Sam remained unresponsive, his eyes rolling restlessly behind his closed lids, his body trembling. The gray pattern on his skin had darkened; it looked as if ink were running through his veins, rather than blood.

"Dammit, Sam," Dean groaned, impotent rage welling hot in his chest. "Don't do this to me, man."

His pleas were ignored. Not taking time to check the window to see how close the demon cloud was, Dean grabbed Sam from the floor, pulling his brother's heated body against his chest and lifting. His leg shook, his back protested, but he got Sam up on the couch. Without waiting to see if the movement had startled Sam awake, Dean hurried to Bobby's kitchen.

_Thank God you're predictable, old man_, Dean thought as he grabbed a bag of rock salt from the cabinet next to the sink. He returned to the office and lined the windowsill and the doorways with salt, intent on keeping Sam on the other side of the line from the demons. No sooner had he finished than the door blasted open, crashing against the wall behind it, the air outside the house a roar of evil.

Sam echoed the sound, his body arching, his eyes closed tight, his hands going up to his head, fingers fisting in his hair. The screech from somewhere below echoed through the house once more, adding to the bone-jarring cacophony.

The dull pounding in Dean's head sparked to vicious life once more as he turned from one threat to the next, his mind whirling as he struggled to figure out which to pay attention to first. The sound of Sam's screams twisted his gut and he stumbled in his hurry to get to the couch.

"Sam!"

His brother was bucking, his body shuddering as if something were pulling at it, tearing it. Thrashing in an unconscious fight, Sam fell from the couch, the nearly-dried blood on his arm smearing the wood floor beneath him. Dean bent over him, hands hovering, seeking to stop his brother's thrashing. He froze as the familiar smell of burned matches filled his nostrils.

Sulfur. In the house.

His breath went sour in his lungs as he slowly turned to face the kitchen and nearly fell back in surprise at an almost human-like shape forming out of the threads of black smoke that had begun to fill Bobby's house. It was featureless, but Dean felt the threat keenly as the figure groaned, arms of smoke reaching for them, halted by the salt line across the threshold.

And then Sam began moving.

Dean blinked, uncomprehending, as Sam's body was drug slowly forward, his boots in danger of breaching the edge of the Devil's Trap. The demons were literally pulling Sam from his grasp and Dean felt as if he were coming undone. It was too much—too much noise, too many memories.

It was Hell resurfacing inside of his safe haven, obliterating any sense of security.

"NO!" Dean bellowed, finally coming to life and throwing the remains of the rock salt directly at the smoke figure.

The figure screamed.

The thing in the house screamed.

Sam screamed.

Dean _wanted_ to scream, but remained deathly quiet as he grabbed his brother up, mustering the strength his tired body had shoved into reserves. He lifted Sam, setting him awkwardly back on the couch, then reached into the weapons bag hanging around his neck and shoulder. His hands never stopped moving; he'd realized his mistake.

No matter what, _keep moving_.

Pulling the sawed-off shotgun from the bag, he expertly broke the barrel, slipped two rounds of rock salt in, and slammed it shut. His jaw was coiled tight, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed as he focused on the task. Raising his eyes to the frothing form of the demon, he took steady aim at what would be dead-center of the figure's chest and pulled both triggers.

Rock salt blasted Bobby's sink and counter and the smoke twisted, the demons screaming as they filtered out, a vacuum of air pulling the door shut in their wake.

"And stay _the_ _fuck_ OUT!" Dean yelled after the retreating demons.

Barely breathing, head pounding from the concentrated effort of keeping them alive, Dean crossed the salt threshold into the kitchen, stepping through the cold space left behind by the figure, and opened the cabinet doors under the sink. He saw the red lever Bobby had told him about, and without hesitation, reached in and pulled it toward him.

The house trembled. The thing below them screeched, then cackled with what almost sounded like delight. Dean pulled himself up, pressing his belly against the counter to peer outside through the small window above the sink. The security light positioned just down from the house above the garage swayed, the fluorescent bulbs flickering for a moment. The moon was covered; Dean couldn't see anything blowing up or falling down.

Then he realized that it was quiet.

Pushing slowly away from the counter, he made his way down the hall to the door, stepping over the scattered books knocked free from the demons intrusion. Parting the curtain that covered the window, he saw nothing but darkness. Carefully, he opened the door, peering through the crack with one eye. At first he couldn't see anything different—simply dirt, night, and the dull glint of old cars off the yellowed security light.

But then he saw that around the parameter of the house lay a fine, white film. Somehow, Bobby had rigged a salt ring. _Around the house_.

"How the hell…?"

Stepping cautiously out onto the porch, Dean looked around, his whole being searching for the sound, the feel, the smell of the demons. The air was tight, the night thick with malice. The moon was gone, covered not by clouds, he knew, but by creatures biding their time until they could get their tentacles on his brother.

"You can't have him!" Dean shouted into the darkness. "I won't let you!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hour Two<strong>_

Easing back into the house, Dean shut the door, limping from the kitchen into the study and toward Sam. His brother was unconscious, the darkening of his veins having traversed his face, neck, and exposed arms and hands. Dean worked to take a breath, his lungs feeling weighted with impossibility. He had to get that ritual and rid Sam of the poison in his blood or these attacks were going to keep happening until one of them was insane and the other a bloody pulp.

Dean dragged a hand down his face, wincing as he came in contact with the wound on his forehead. Sam turned in his sleep, twisting his body sideways and nearly falling from the couch. His lips hadn't ceased moving, whispering words Dean couldn't—and didn't want to—understand. Words, Dean assumed, Sam was hearing in his head uttered by the demons that wouldn't give him up.

"Two can play at that game," Dean muttered, his mind racing as he thought through his next steps. "You might have us by the short and curlies," he said, making his way over to Bobby's desk, "but I survived Hell, you bastards. You _won't_ win."

He didn't know why he was talked to them as if they could hear him, but a glance at Sam as he rifled through Bobby's desk had him wondering if there might be some way they could. A conduit to the demon world right here in front of him.

The hunter in him wondered for one heartbeat if he should use that to send a message of resistance. The brother in him cared only about getting them away from Sam.

"You won't win," he repeated, pulling a coil of rope from the lowest drawer.

"Won't win," Sam muttered, almost coherently, before dissolving once more into an unceasing, incomprehensible monologue.

"You tell 'em, Sammy," Dean said as he tied the rope around the wrist of his brother's wounded arm, slipping the rope over the edge of the couch, drawing it up beneath the couch to tie Sam's other arm, then secure his feet at the ankles to the legs of the couch.

Sam wasn't going to like being tied up. Dean knew when his brother came out of this fugue he was going to have a fight on his hands. But he was _not_ going to let Sam get pulled from the protection of the Devil's Trap. He shoved the heavy desk against one side of the couch, and a bookshelf against the other, securing the couch in place.

As he dragged the furniture across the wooden floor, the unearthly screech echoed through the house again. Dean went still, listening. It was below him, coming from where he knew the panic room to be.

_The witch_, he guessed. In annoyance, he stomped his foot on the ground twice. The screech ended.

"That's what I thought," he muttered.

Sam groaned and Dean saw him try to reach for the wound on his arm, the ropes around his wrists halting his movement.

"Yeah," Dean sighed at his unconscious brother. "I bet that hurts, man. I'll find something to help."

Stepping carefully over the salt lines that crossed the doorway, though feeling safer about doing so because of the salt line around the house, Dean made his way to the bathroom down the hall where he knew Bobby kept most of his medical supplies. The house was quiet. So quiet he could hear his own raspy breathing. He hadn't realized he was practically gasping for breath, dragging it into lungs that felt fire-seared.

He closed his mouth, forcing himself to breathe through his nose.

_They're coming back._

Flinching, Dean looked over his shoulder, ready to face whoever it was got past the house defenses. He was alone. But the voice…had been so close.

_They're getting stronger._

Dizzy, suddenly disoriented, Dean pressed a hand against the wall of the hallway, trying to separate fear from reality. It was real, this voice. Real and somewhere close. A ragged, torn voice destroyed by age and hard living.

"Where are you?" Dean demanded, feeling foolish and angry as he called out to nothing. To nobody. "_Who_ are you?"

He didn't receive an answer. A chill ran through him causing him to shiver, his clothes suddenly too heavy for his skin. The weapons bag he had yet to set down weighed on him and he felt as if he was trying to breathe underwater.

"Pull it together, Dean," he admonished himself.

It had been a long time since he felt this helpless. This _alone_. Not since—

He shook his head forcefully, bracing himself against the wall as the motion tipped him sideways. He wasn't going back there. He'd spent too much energy, too many nights, too much liquor, trying to fill the emptiness, trying to forget the pain, the hopelessness….

He had a job to do. Probably not the job Heaven wanted; definitely not the job Hell wanted. This was a job he'd been given long before he'd had anything that resembled a destiny. Long before he'd been pulled from Hell by an angel.

It was the job that sent him to Hell in the first place. And they weren't going to take him back there.

Not now.

Pushing forward, ignoring the tickle of the voice in the back of his mind, he turned on the light in the bathroom, drawing away from the sight of himself reflecting back in the small medicine cabinet mirror. Like a fault line, the skin on his forehead running from his hairline to his eyebrow had opened up, blood crossing the bridge of his nose in a dried stain. His eyelid and lashes of his left eye were crusted with blood and the wound itself was gaping and wet.

As soon as he saw it, he realized the pain had been with him all along; he'd just been blocking it. The sight of the opened wound shot flashes of memory through him. Images he thought he'd dreamed until Hell convinced him otherwise.

The memory of his father with yellow eyes. The memory of his heart being twisted from his body. The memory of seeing himself shocked back to life.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he closed his eyes, working to banish the images to the dark corner of his mind he'd shoved all memories too bloody and too painful to focus on for long. But that corner was crowded and the harder he shoved, the more spilled free. Bowing his head, Dean groaned trying to get his balance–

—_screams, growls, pain—_

—trying to remember how to breathe using lungs that didn't want to cooperate with him—

—_blood, salt, blades—_

—denying the burn of tears at the backs of eyes that had seen too much—

—_hooks, tearing, emptiness_—

"Stop," he breathed, his knuckles white on the edge of the sink. Purposefully, he raised his head and stared at his reflection. "Stop it. Now."

Pulling an unsteady breath in through parted lips, he opened the cabinet, banishing the haunting visual of too-wide eyes in a too-pale face, and grabbed antiseptic, bandages, Holy Water, pain killers, and towels.

Swinging the mirror closed, he jerked back, startled, at the sight of a face in the mirror next to his. Stifling a cry of surprise, he turned quickly, swaying with the motion, and confirmed that he was, indeed, alone in the bathroom. Looking back at the mirror, he once again saw only himself. But the memory of the woman—it had been a woman, he knew, with stringing, dirty blonde hair, hollow eyes, pallid skin—was vivid.

Dean's breath was shallow, sweat breaking out across his body. The feeling that he didn't fit in his own skin was a painfully familiar one and he gripped the sink once more, closing his eyes.

He remembered being haunted.

He remembered hearing the voices in his head.

He remembered being hurt and alone and calling for help and finding none. No savior. No solace. And he'd fought. He'd fought _so hard_….

Like muscle memory, Dean began to instinctively draw upon the first defense he'd fallen to in Hell, when his body was stretched to its breaking point, hooks digging into the meat of his shoulders, his side, his legs, and Sam hadn't answered him. Hundreds of songs, thousands of lyrics had been his companion during the loneliest of nights while alive and they had kept the demons from devouring his mind for years in Hell. He'd whispered them like a prayer, like a curse, like so many of the Latin rites that were powerless in the dark of that cold prison.

Tightening his lips against his teeth, his eyes still closed, Dean whispered quietly, a chant to himself, "Lonely is the night…you find yourself alone…. Demons come to light…your mind is not your own."

He opened his eyes, staring hard at himself, the tune of the song seeping through the cracks in his mind that had opened and allowed the memories he'd worked so hard to bury claw their way to the surface.

"You feel the time is right," Dean said to his reflection, no trace of melody in his voice. "The writing's on the wall."

Chanting the song steadied him. Stuffing the medical supplies into the duffel he now wore like a piece of clothing, he turned and made his way to Bobby's mud room. He was staggering, he realized, the room swaying unsteadily around him.

Opening the bag, he swiped his arm along the boxes of ammo and salt rounds. Grabbing two daggers, he stuffed them into the bag just in case, then putting a shoulder to the wall, he headed back to the study and Sam.

Just as he started down the hall, he caught a flash, a glimpse of a shadow, turning the corner into the study just ahead of him. It had looked too small to be Sam, but…who else would be running around Bobby's house in the middle of the night?

Dean stumbled forward, turning the corner after the shadow and stared around the room with wide eyes, trying to see everything.

Sam hadn't moved; trussed up as he was, Dean was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to without help. Legs shaking, Dean stepped over the undisturbed salt line and dropped the bag next to the couch where Sam lay. There was no one else in the room, no shadow.

He must have been seeing things.

Wearily, Dean slumped against the desk, trying to steady his sight. He couldn't figure out why he was so dizzy and it was starting to piss him off. He had a _job_ to do. He reached blindly into the bottom drawer of Bobby's desk, breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers closed around the neck of a bottle. Not bothering with a glass, Dean took a long pull, letting the whiskey burn his throat, heat his belly, then set the bottle back down on the desk before moving to Sam once more.

Giving in to the tremble of his legs, Dean sank to his knees beside the couch. Sam was shivering, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip, his fingers twitching into claws, his legs shifting against the ropes that held him tight. The dark lines on his skin contrasted with the pale of Sam's flesh, making him appear almost luminescent in the dim light from Bobby's desk.

Dean suppressed the panic at seeing the poison tattoo his brother from the inside out. He knew enough about the bite of a Neresit to not be afraid of the poison killing Sam. As long as he could keep the demons at bay. As long as he could get to that ritual.

"Sammy?"

Groaning, Sam rolled his head toward the sound of Dean's voice.

"Hey, man," Dean said, resting his hand on the top of Sam's sweat-dampened hair. "Wake up, Sammy. Need you to open your eyes."

Sam blinked slowly, his eyes heavy-lidded and bleary.

"There you are," Dean smiled, patting the top of Sam's head affectionately. "I'm gonna clean off your arm, okay?"

"I can see the fire…," Sam muttered, his voice sluggish, distracted. "Inside of me. They're gonna make me burn."

Dean closed his eyes, knowing now too well what Sam was feeling. And why.

"You're not gonna burn, Sam," Dean said, opening his eyes, surprised to find his brother looking back at him. He met Sam's eyes squarely."You're not, I promise. They're trying to trick you, play on your fears."

"Fears? Of…of fire?" Sam croaked, his brows pulling together, turning him young.

Dean reached out, gripping Sam's hand, thumb to thumb. Sam held on, tight, as if Dean was a life raft and he was drowning. It made Dean catch his breath, the force of his brother's grip.

"Mom burned," Sam whispered. "And Jess. I saw her. I watched her burn."

Dean tried to steady his breath, tried to banish the immediate memories of so many bodies, so much blood, all of them licked with flame, fire a cruel mistress….

"They're gonna burn me just like—"

"Don't listen to them, Sam," Dean broke in, desperation turning his voice rough. "Sing. Or chant a rite or…hell, _pray_ if you have to."

"Pray?" Sam asked, his voice young.

"You used to pray," Dean pointed out. Sam blinked in surprised agreement. "Do it again. Anything to block the voices out."

"Who is it, Dean?" Sam demanded, anger slipping through the cracks in his voice, demanding to know why this was happening to him. "_What _is it?"

Dean swallowed, his eyes stinging. "Demons, Sam. They're trying to find your cracks. Trying to get in…get to you."

Sam's breath shook as his voice leaked hopelessness. "You hear them?"

"Not right now," Dean replied. "But I have. Before."

Dean released Sam's hand to reach for the bag, quietly cursing Castiel for sending them on this hunt in the first place, even though Dean knew he'd practically jumped at the chance…even though _he'd_ been the one to say they could take it down. _Not that different from a werewolf, right? We can take this thing, easy. _So much evil. So little time._  
><em>

"I don't like fire," Sam confessed. "I don't wanna burn."

"I'm gonna fix this, okay?" Dean's voice was tight, choking on his guilt. He hadn't been fast enough, hadn't paid close enough attention…. "Just…let me clean your wound and—"

"They're so loud," Sam practically shouted, trying to reach up to his head, but prevented by the ropes. "_God_, Dean. They're _so loud_. Laughing. They're laughing and…. They're gonna burn me, man!"

"NO!" Dean grabbed Sam's hand again. "No, Sam. No one is gonna burn. Listen to me. You're _tougher_ than this. Okay, hey, hey! Sammy! Look at me." He shook Sam's hand until his brother turned toward him. "Stay looking at me. Look at my eyes. Okay?"

Sam nodded, breathing hard, visibly working to bring himself under control.

"They can't have you, okay? Remember?" He poked Sam's chest where he knew the tattoo was. "They can't get you and it's pissing them off."

"They're st-strong," Sam protested. "It's worse than when—"

He stopped as if unable to find the words.

"When you drank the blood," Dean guessed.

Sam nodded again. "I wanted…back then I _wanted_ to…but this—" He broke off, gulping in a breath and trying once more to reach up to his head and prevented by the rope. He frowned, staring at his hands as if just realizing they were there. "What the hell—"

"Hey, don't," Dean tightened his grip on Sam's hand. "Had to keep you on the couch."

Sam pulled at the ropes again, unable to move his hands much higher than his sternum. "Dean. Lemme go." He didn't bother to disguise the panic in his voice. His eyes darted from Dean's face to the rope and back.

Dean worked to keep Sam's hands still as his brother fought against him, desperate to free himself. "Sam, easy—"

Sam kicked at the arm of the couch hard enough to crack the frame, his raspy voice deepening, growing out a harsh demand for freedom. "Lemme go, dammit!"

"Hey!" Dean barked, rising to his knees and jerking on Sam's arms, making his brother meet his eyes. "Stop it! Those bastards almost pulled you out of the Devil's Trap earlier."

"Wha—they did?" Sam stopped fighting, staring at Dean with clear-eyed surprise.

"I didn't tie you up to trap you, Sam," Dean told him, his voice gentling, knowing how he'd feel if he'd woke to find himself similarly bound. "I'm trying," his voice broke, "to keep you _safe_."

Sam pulled again on the ropes, but with weaker force, his lips trembling as he clamped his eyes shut against the voices in his head, the dark lines of the poison in his veins standing out against his pale skin in the weak light from Bobby's study.

"They won't stop! They won't _shut the hell up!_"

Dean let go of Sam's hand, rubbing his calloused palm over his own lips in thought. "Just…you gotta think of something else, Sam. _Anything_ else. A…a rhyme or a—"

Sam turned his face away, burying his nose in the back of the couch as he groaned with frustration. Dean's mind scrambled, skittering on thoughts and chances, searching blindly for something to ease the lines of pain around Sam's eyes, wanting to throw him some kind of rope.

And then, suddenly, he knew.

"Watch out," Dean started, trying to turn the words into a tune Sam would recognize. "You might get what you're after." He gently shook Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, Sam. You know the words."

Sam turned sluggishly to face him, his eyes unfocused and lost, his expression confused. "What are you talking about?"

Dean continued to sing in a low voice, tugging on Sam's hand to keep his brother's attention. "Strange but not a stranger."

A smile ticked up the edges of Dean's lips as he saw recognition in Sam's eyes.

"This is stupid," Sam mumbled.

"Worked for me," Dean told him.

"It worked for you…when?" Sam asked, wincing from an unseen pain.

"Y'know…," Dean glanced away. "In Hell."

"You…sang?" Sam's voice cracked around the word. Dean knew he hadn't brought up his tour in Hell in months. "That kept them out of your head?"

"For a while, yeah," Dean told him, using one of the daggers to cut Sam's long-sleeved shirt free and carefully pulling it from under Sam's body as Sam lay still, allowing Dean to treat his wounded arm. "I know it sounds eight kinds of crazy, but when nothing else worked…this did." His confession was keeping Sam's attention, keeping his brother still. The words like razors in his chest, he continued, "I mean…sometimes I couldn't remember my own name."

He exposed Sam's filthy gray T-shirt, smeared with dirt and blood, and more of his black-veined skin.

"I didn't know where I was…or why I was there. I couldn't remember Dad or Mom…or sometimes even you," Dean quickly shifted his eyes up to Sam's face, meeting his brother's fevered expression directly, letting him see the pain in his eyes, the pain he'd tried to shield everyone—even himself—from seeing.

"But no matter what they did to me…what they said to me…I could always remember these damn songs."

Sam's eyes moved to Dean's mouth. Dean watched as his brother gave in, desperate to hear something other than the voices, to feel something other than their reaching fingers beneath his skin.

"I'm an ordinary guy," they said together, barely above a whisper, "burning down the house."

"There ya go," Dean nodded. "Keep it up. Keep singing; you can't hear them. Even if you just have to sing in your head. You keep it up."

Sam closed his eyes, focusing on the words of the song and not the images and fears Dean knew the demons planted in his head.

"Hold tight," he muttered. "Wait till the party's over."

"Hold tight," Dean said with him. "We're in for nasty weather."

He gently slid a towel under Sam's wounded arm, wetting another towel with antiseptic. He'd already soaked the wound with Holy Water, but now he needed to clean it from actual germs, not just the supernatural poisoning contaminating his brother's blood.

"There has got to be a way," he sang softly with Sam.

"Burning down the house," Sam finished, his closed eyes squeezing tight.

"Think you can drink something?" Dean asked as Sam's breathing steadied.

"Depends on what you're talking about," Sam replied with a bleary-eyed frown.

Dean grinned tiredly. "I was thinking ibuprofen with a water chaser."

"That'll work," Sam sighed.

Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, Dean staggered to the kitchen, filling a cup with water, and peering out through the window. The moon had returned, it's light thin and weak, but there. However, in that light, Dean saw the edges of the trees shifting and his heart stuttered in his chest.

Shifting trees meant wind. Wind meant a break in the salt line.

He hurried to the door and peered out. So far, from this view at least, he couldn't see a break in the line. But he knew it was only a matter of time.

_They're getting stronger._

Putting the heel of his hand against his forehead, he forced himself to block out the taunting voice.

"Dean?"

"'m coming," Dean replied, moving forward.

_Keep moving_, he told himself. _Don't stop. Don't stop and they won't find you. Don't stop and they can't get to you._

He knelt next to Sam again, lifting his brother's head to help him swallow the pain meds. Sam thirstily gulped the last of the water. Dean promised him more soon.

"What's all this…black stuff?" Sam asked, his eyes looking clearer than they had since the Neresit attacked.

"Pretty sure it's the Neresit poisoning."

"I look like a mutant," Sam groaned, dropping his head back and tugging weakly on the ropes.

Dean was slightly surprised that Sam hadn't freaked out more, seeing the black tracks across his skin. He simply seemed...weary. Weary and scared.

"Yeah, well," Dean shook his head, carefully cleaning the blood from around the wound on Sam's arm, "too bad you lost your cool super power. You coulda sent these guys packin'."

Sam went still and Dean heard his low hum of _Burning Down the House_.

"Persistent bastards," Dean muttered.

"What's…what's the plan, Dean?" Sam gasped, opening his eyes and finding Dean's face.

"I fix this. You stay here," Dean said, glancing up.

"Devil's Trap," Sam remembered, his words slurring, his expression tangled. He tugged on the ropes.

"You're safe here." Dean reached into the bag and grabbed the antiseptic.

"But they can find me," Sam guessed. "Can't sing forever."

"Once we do the ritual, they'll be gone," Dean said. "Hang on. This is gonna sting."

Not giving Sam time to protest, Dean poured the antiseptic over the open wound, holding Sam's arm still as his brother tried to jerk away.

"Aw, _shit_," Sam groaned. "Shit, that _hurts._"

"Well, I did warn you," Dean pointed out. He blinked, his vision blurring once again. "Gonna wrap it kinda loose until I know how we fix you."

"Where's Bobby?" Sam gasped, looking around, confused.

"He's…on his way," Dean promised, wrapping gauze around the wound carefully, not wanting to alarm Sam further by telling him their friend was at least six hours away. "How you doing?"

"Tired," Sam confessed, his heavy-lidded eyes slipping closed.

"Rest while you can," Dean said. "This is going to be a long night."

Sam nodded, and Dean sensed him sink a bit further into the couch as he gave in to exhaustion. Leaning back against the desk, Dean knew he had to see to his own wounds or he wasn't going to be much use to Sam.

Using the small knife on his jeans, Dean cut out a patch of denim from around the wound in his thigh. Four gouges of exposed skin, each about three inches long, stared up at him, sending his stomach in a twist and rushing a wet taste to the back of his throat. Closing his eyes briefly against the nausea, Dean started with the Holy Water.

The kick of pain had him crying out and squeezing his eyes shut, thumping his head back against the desk. His hand shook, his leg trembled, and he could smell a sour, almost rotted stench coiling up from his skin. Panting for breath, he stopped for a moment, looking down at the marks and frowned as he saw a froth of blood and pus begin to build inside the wounds, reaching the outer edges of the cuts and slip down his skin, soaking his blood-crusted jeans.

"What the hell?"

The poison wasn't in _him_—it couldn't be. The Neresit only marked those it bit. Didn't it? Turning his shaking hand over, he searched for the dark lines he'd seen on Sam tracing a tale-tell pattern over his own skin.

Finding none, he took a slow, uneven breath and began to pour again. Once more the sensation of standing outside himself overwhelmed him and he was staring down at a battered man, pouring Holy Water from a silver flask over a mangled leg, his body trembling, his head bloody, mouth pulled into a tight grimace of pain.

When the flask was empty, Dean dropped it, rushing back to himself with disorienting speed, his head dropping down to his chest as he fought to stay conscious.

"Well," he gasped out loud. "That was fun."

_They're coming back._

He flinched away from the voice, cursing with the realization that he _couldn't_ get away from her; she was in his head. She'd found a way in and she'd dug a trench and he wasn't going to shake her.

He wasn't going to get free.

_They're getting stronger._

"Shut _up_, bitch!" Dean yelled to the quiet of the room. He rubbed his face, carefully avoiding the cut on his forehead. "Stay outta my head_._"

Using the opposite end of the towel he'd used to clean Sam's wounds, he wiped down his leg with antiseptic, swearing loudly as he did so, each curse growing in strength until the wounds were simply angry gashes in the meat of his leg. Grabbing the last rag from the pile, he folded the cloth over the deepest part of the cuts, pressed down and hissed loudly as the ache went into his bones.

The remaining gauze went around his leg as an anchor for the rag. He'd worry about bandaging it better after he'd ritualized Sam. He wasn't going to be able to deal with his head, but as it had stopped bleeding and wasn't blinding him any longer, he figured that could wait, too.

"What's one more scar," he muttered, shrugging out of his jacket and patting the pockets in search of his phone.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hour Three<strong>_

"_What the hell took you so long?"_

"Good to hear from you, too." Dean sighed out the words, weariness gripping him with vengeance. He dropped his head back against Bobby's desk and closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep the phone up by his ear.

"_The demons?"_

"Used your salt ring trick," Dean told his friend. "They're…regrouping. Or whatever." He opened his eyes. "How the hell did you do that, anyway?"

"_Lot of trial and error,"_ Bobby replied gruffly. "_It won't last long, though, so we gotta hurry."_

"Tell me something I don't know," Dean muttered.

"_I left Rufus three messages,"_ Bobby obliged, his voice gravely with frustration. _"Don't know where the hell he went to get angelica, but he ain't answering."_

"Figures," Dean muttered. "Gonna have to do this on my own."

"_The ritual is in a large, black book with an etching of a cross on the cover and spine,"_ Bobby said with curt tightness to his voice that reached through the phone to grab Dean by the chin. _"Last I saw it, it was on the table behind my desk, under a jar of crow's feet."_

Dean blinked slowly, working to wake up his sluggish mind. "You have a jar of…_bird feet_ in here?"

"_This surprises you?"_

There were parts of Bobby's house as familiar to Dean as the Impala. This house was as much home to him as any place had been. But for the first time, Dean looked around, seeing the chaos of Bobby's study as a stranger might.

Books stacked vertically, horizontally, diagonally, on shelves, on the floor, covering what was almost unrecognizable as a chair. Jars of unidentifiable objects shoved into corners and sitting atop curse boxes that were almost beautifully adorned with protective carvings. Turning as he continued to look around, Dean thought he even saw a monkey's hand on one of the shelves.

"No," he shook his head, hearing the scruff of his way-past-five-o'clock shadow rub against the mouthpiece of the phone. "No, I guess not."

"_You see it?"_ Bobby asked.

"Hang on," Dean grunted, needing to use the edge of the desk to pull himself up. He made it to his knees before he was forced to stop, suck in his breath and wait for the world to level out. The edges of his vision grayed and a dull buzz ticked in his ears.

He didn't realize he'd dropped the phone until he heard Bobby calling his name from what seemed like a million miles away.

"I'm here," he said, gripping the phone and pulling himself the rest of the way to his feet, leaning heavily against the desk.

"_Is it bad?"_ Bobby asked, skipping over the _are you hurt_ question that he apparently knew Dean would avoid.

"I've had worse," Dean answered honestly.

"_You've also been dead,"_ Bobby reminded him. _"Recently."_

"True," Dean grunted as he moved to the shelf Bobby had described. "No bird foot jar, man."

"_Look in the china cabinet,"_ Bobby suggested.

"The…what?" Dean blinked in surprise, suppressing a laugh. "You have…china?"

"_I did,"_ Bobby replied, his voice daring Dean to make something of it. _"Now I just have spell books and lots of weapons."_

It was always a bit of a shock when Dean remembered that there had been a Bobby before the hunter he knew. A Bobby who'd run a legitimate business – not simply a front, but an actual money-making scrap yard – who had been married and had kept a house and had maybe even a family of his own. A Bobby who had been to war and seen true horrors before Hell decided to turn inside out and show him how much worse it could be.

When he did remember, Dean found himself straying to the _what if_ part of his brain he didn't often feed. _What if_ John had made a different choice in raising motherless sons – would destiny have still caught up with them? _What if_ he hadn't gotten Sam from Stanford – would his brother have still been a hunter? _What if_ a deals hadn't been made, sacrifices forced, families torn apart….

"_Dean? You ain't fading on me again, are you?"_

"Still here," Dean mumbled, rubbing the side of his head and trying to stay focused.

He felt empty. Hollowed out.

"_I know you're hurting, boy,"_ Bobby said gently, _"but right now you're the only hope your brother's got, you hear me?"_

"I _know_ that, Bobby," Dean snapped, exhaustion sparking irritation.

"_Just keep it together a few more hours."_

"Found the china cabinet," Dean told him. "It's locked."

"_The key is—"_

Dean shoved his elbow through the glass, yanking the door open.

"It's not locked anymore."

Bobby's sigh was weighted. Dean knew he'd probably broken one of the last pieces of furniture Bobby still kept from his old life, but at the moment he didn't care_. I don't need you to remind me what my job is,_ Dean thought rebelliously.

"_Guess I deserved that,"_ Bobby replied almost as though he'd heard Dean's unspoken thought. _"You see the book?"_

"Yeah," Dean grunted, pulling the heavy volume out and turning back to the desk, dropping it on top of a pile of yellowed papers.

Sam groaned, twisting slightly in his sleep. Dean spared him a glance then turned back to the book.

"What do I look under?"

"_Hell Bearer,"_ Bobby told him.

Sam muttered something intelligible and Dean frowned, flipping through the crinkled, musty-smelling pages as he mentally ran the alphabet through his head trying to find the page on the Hell Bearer. He saw a sketch of what looked like an old-school werewolf peering up at him from the faded pages.

"Found it," he said, running his finger down the page, exhaling. "Okay, it says…Pakao Neresit is Serbian for Hell Bearer. Awesome. Why didn't it stay the hell in Serbia? Appear as a diseased, dog-like creature…horrible smell, mouthful of fangs, yeah, no shit…wheezing bark can cause disorientation, unconsciousness, blah blah blah—"

"_Did it bark?"_ Bobby asked.

"Hell, yeah, it barked," Dean replied, still reading.

"_And…you're okay?"_

Dean paused. "What do you mean?"

"_You're not dizzy or anything? Off-balance, that sort of thing?"_

Frowning, Dean looked over at Sam's restless form on the couch. His vision blurred slightly and he reached up to rub at his blood-crusted eye. "Why, Bobby?"

Bobby sighed, hearing the unspoken _yes_ in Dean's answer. _"The effects can last for some time. You need sleep. Only way to beat it."_

Dean snorted humorlessly. "Well, let's get this ritual done so I can check into a spa or something."

He read on. "Okay, here's the part about the marker…it's transmitted through their saliva and their victim is targeted as a demonic host. Doesn't say anything about turning the blood black, though."

"_Doing what now?"_ Bobby asked.

"Sam's blood," Dean glanced at his brother, noting that the darkened veins on his face had faded a bit from black to an almost purplish-gray. "It turned dark…I can track the veins under his skin."

"_Never heard of that before,"_ Bobby muttered. _"Maybe it's because of the demon blood…."_

"Swell. Demon blood. The gift that keeps on giving," Dean muttered, reading on. "Okay here's the ritual," he said, his eyes jumping to the words _human blood, demon ash_, and _burning_. "Bobby…what the hell?"

"_I told you,"_ Bobby said. _"This is not going to be easy."_

"Easy? It says I have to _burn_ it out of him," Dean protested, Sam's plaintive _I don't wanna burn_ echoing in his mind.

Bobby was silent.

"Using the ash of a demon," Dean read aloud, "make a paste with the blood of a human, mix in two parts boneset—whatever the hell _that_ is—

"_I got some in the garage. Back-up supplies of herbs."_

"—three parts caraway root," Dean continued as if Bobby hadn't spoken, "and completely cover the wound before _lighting _the paste on_ fire_."

Bobby said nothing.

"Did you hear what I just said?" Dean barked.

"_Dean,"_ Bobby said patiently. _"It won't _actually _burn him."_

"They are messing with his head, Bobby," Dean bellowed, slamming the book shut and stumbling over to the couch to peer down at his feverish brother. Sam was twisting in his sleep, pulling against the ropes and muttering. "I had to tie him to the goddamn couch so he would stay inside the Devil's Trap. All he talks about is that they're going to burn him and you want me to fuckin' _light him on fire_?"

"_Dean."_ Bobby's voice was firm. _"Calm down."_

"I _am_ calm, dammit!" Dean snapped, sagging back against the desk and pinching the bridge of his nose.

_They're getting stronger._

Dean frowned. He'd heard the words in his head just as before, but this time he'd also been watching Sam. Watching as Sam's lips formed those same words.

But it wasn't Sam's voice in his head.

"_The problem isn't burning the paste,"_ Bobby said. _"It's getting demonic ash."_

"Wait, what?" Dean asked, trying to shake the buzz from his ears. "What did you say?"

His mouth was dry and the room seemed to be growing steadily darker. Blinking his eyes wide, he caught sight of another slim shadow darting around the corner, as if running from the study and down the hall. Reaching up, he rubbed his eyes, then looked once more at the space he thought he'd seen someone standing. There was nothing there.

He needed a drink.

"_You need demonic ash, Dean,"_ Bobby reminded him.

"How the hell am I supposed to get that?" Dean groused, reaching for Bobby's liquor bottle.

He took a short pull from the mouth of the bottle, holding the liquid in his mouth for a bit, letting it burn his tongue and the back of his mouth before swallowing. The burn seemed to chase the shadows away from his vision and he took a fire-seared breath.

"_Only way I know how,"_ Bobby was saying, _"is to trap one inside a human. And then set them on fire."_

That snapped Dean's attention from Sam's restless sleep to the phone in his hand.

"Say that again."

"_You gotta burn a possessed human."_

"No way." Dean shook his head. "No fuckin' way, Bobby."

—_It would be so easy to make it all stop, Dean—_

The memory of that voice—Alistair's voice…a demon who no longer lived but would forever haunt his dreams—slid oil-slick through his mind and down his spine, a shudder following.

Bobby's voice sounded thin as he said, _"It's the only way to save your brother, Dean."_

—_All you have to do is say the word…turn the knife on them…make them burn, and we will stop the pain—_

And he had. He'd said the word. He'd turned the knife. He'd made them burn.

But they'd lied. The pain didn't stop. It just changed.

"No, Bobby," Dean forced out through stiff lips. His body was cold, shaking. His heart was hammering so loud in his chest it was almost all he could hear. "I…I can't. I _can't_."

"_You have to, dammit!"_ Bobby shouted. _"If you don't do this, Sam will die. They will eat him up from the inside out. They will turn him on himself, and then on you. They will drive at him until they possess him and if they can't do that, they will bring Hell down on him any way they can."_

Dean was holding his head, his palm pressed against the raw cut on his forehead. He heard Bobby's words, but saw only the emptiness beyond the rack. The emptiness that was more often than not filled with the ever-shifting form of Alistair. A man sometimes, a woman others, a snake, a dragon—creatures he thought were only myth but brought very real pain.

"Aw, dammit…," he whispered, his heart twisting at the thought of Sam seeing that. Sam in that Hell.

His fingers numb, he let the phone drop from his grip and lifted his shaking hand up before his eyes, remembering the slick of blood on his palm, the heavy weight of the blade in his grip as he followed orders—something he'd always excelled at. He remembered the cold weight of the pain as the hooks had been pulled from his flesh, freeing him and trapping him at the same time.

He remembered each soul, each face, each curse, each scream.

He remembered the fire, the bubble of their skin, the smell of it. He remembered the cold lick of the flames, the hatred in their eyes. He'd been empty, a shell of himself, forgetting who he'd been, who he was, who he loved, who loved him.

He forgot language and meaning. He knew only torture and orders and pain.

"Dean!"

Bringing his head up with a sniff, he looked around and saw Bobby's study, not the cold, dark room in Hell. He'd lost track of how much time had passed. He'd fallen to his knees, his wounded leg bleeding once more. Sweat had tracked his face, finding its way to the corners of his mouth. Disoriented, he licked the salt from his lips as he looked around, drawing awareness around him like a blanket, trying to determine who had called his name.

_Sam._

His brother was straining against the ropes, the tendons in his neck tight, his body shaking. The dark lines on his skin had turned from purple to blue, giving him a cadaverous look. On shaking arms, Dean crawled over to the couch, reaching up to touch Sam's cheek, shocked when he found his brother's skin cold.

"Sam?"

With a jerk of his head, Sam's body relaxed and he opened his eyes. Dean drew back with a gasp. Sam's eyes were severely bloodshot, the pupils blown wide until barely any hint of hazel could be seen around the rims. Dean didn't recognize the look in them, nor did he see his brother in the smile that twisted Sam's lips.

"They're coming back," Sam said, his voice a rasp. "They're getting stronger."

Dean blamed the pain.

It was the only reason it had taken him this long to figure it out. If his body hadn't distracted him with a mind-weakening ache, he would have followed the trail of mental breadcrumbs from the voice to the mirror image to the shadows to the witch the moment he'd first heard the screeching beneath him.

As it was, the realization drove a surge of strength through his shaking body and he grabbed Sam's arms.

"Sam! Stop it. This isn't you!"

The smile that wasn't Sam's widened, exposing his teeth in an almost shark-like grimace. Dean flinched, horror nearly blanking out rational thought. His brother looked like a ghost of himself, his long hair plastered to his head with dirt and sweat, the blue veins creating tracks across his skin, and his eyes—

"You know where I am," Sam taunted in a stranger's voice.

"How are you doing this?" Dean demanded, releasing Sam's arms and leaning back. "I know you're not possessing him."

_It's easy when you have mind willing to believe._

Dean half-turned, his world tipping off-balance, before he realized that the voice wasn't behind him—it was once more in his head.

"Let him go," Dean demanded.

_Make me._

Dean looked back down at his brother. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and to Dean's increasing horror, he began to seize. The ropes holding him to the couch began to dig into his flesh and his feet pounded against the arm of the couch, cracking the wood further.

"All right!" Dean shouted.

Sam went instantly still, his body sagging into the couch as if all life had been drained from it. Dean scrambled over to the weapons bag and grabbed one of the small daggers from the pile of ammo, cutting the ropes from Sam's wrists. Stabbing the blade into the arm of the couch, he left Sam's ankles tied, but rubbed the wounded skin at Sam's wrists gently.

"Please," Dean breathed to his brother's slack features. "_Please_ stay put this time. Just…just do this _one thing_ for me, okay?"

Running his hand over Sam's damp hair in a helpless gesture, he stood. He didn't have the strength to think about repercussions and reasons. He had to blank his mind to the memories, to the pain in his leg and head that threatened to send him spiraling to the ground. He had a job to do and aside from that—aside from Sam—nothing else mattered. He couldn't afford to let it.

If he did…he'd lose himself.

Sliding the extra dagger into his back pocket and tucking his .45 into his waistband, he grabbed his cell phone, turned, and crossed the salt line, following the same path the wayward shadow had gone toward the basement door and the stairs that led to the panic room.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hour Four<strong>_

He'd been in the panic room several times—had trapped Sam in there twice before. The most recent time leading to the last prayer Dean had truly meant. A prayer for help that had been summarily ignored because God wasn't in the mood to listen to Dean Winchester.

_Even though His world is folding it at the seams, _Dean thought_. Even though his soldiers are tearing each other up and taking us with them._

The tiny window cut into the top of the metal door of the panic room was closed and he saw a gleaming new padlock and chain securing the door. _Rufus _really _didn't want anyone in or out without his say-so, _Dean mused, approaching the window. He braced himself for what he'd find on the other side, then slid the window open.

His first thought was that she looked like a Kindergarten teacher.

Sitting demurely on the bare cot in the center of the room, legs crossed at the ankles, blonde hair hanging loosely around her shoulders, the witch stared at him through the window with wide, guileless eyes and for a moment, Dean thought he'd made a huge mistake.

_Do we need to talk about books and their covers?_

The voice was like a fist in his mind, pressing against his ears uncomfortably and taking up the space his too-busy thoughts needed.

"So," Dean said out loud, mainly for the sake of normalcy, "not_ just_ a witch, but a _psychic_ witch. Special."

"What can I say?" She smiled and Dean saw a flash of the grimace that had spread Sam's mouth wide moments ago. "It's one of my many gifts."

"What do you want with Sam?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit," Dean shot back.

His body suddenly throbbed, a shimmer of white-hot pain centering on his wounded leg. He grabbed the protruding hinges of the metal door for balance as his leg shook and his head swam. He closed his eyes, fighting to stay upright, then took a shallow breath and opened his eyes. He jerked back, startled, when he saw that she was now standing directly on the other side of the small window, her eyes no longer calm but as blood shot and manic as he'd seen Sam's eyes earlier.

"He is dying."

"I'm gonna stop that." Dean grit his teeth, reaching down to hold the top of his wounded thigh, trying in vain to suppress the pain that was spiking up to a nauseating level.

"Use me," the witch rasped, her voice both in front of him and echoing in his mind.

"Stop!" Dean found himself almost pleading, closing his eyes and allowing his forehead to fall forward against the bars. He felt the cold metal against his open wound. "Get the hell outta my head!"

"Use. Me." This time, she simply spoke the words and her voice was calm, normal.

He opened his eyes and saw she was once again sitting on the cot.

"Is super-speed one of your _gifts_?" he asked irritably.

"I know what you know, Dean Winchester. I know what you need."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean arched an eyebrow. "This oughta be good."

"I will be your vessel." She tilted her head and for a moment Dean's breath stopped.

He swallowed. "What?"

"I will be the vessel for your demon."

He frowned. "Wait…you _want_ me to kill you?"

"Yes." The amount of desperation and hope wrapped around that one word shook him.

He took a step back from the window but his leg refused to hold him. Leaning heavily against the wall, he looked down at the make-shift bandage wrapped around the cuts the Neresit had left behind. The towel was dark with fresh blood and the knotted gauze was twisted and loose from his struggles with Sam earlier.

Looking back over at the door he called out, "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she said, her voice muffled by the door, but, thankfully, not in his head. "You set me free, I allow a demon to possess me, trap it inside of me. You burn me and save your brother."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Or…I set you free, you run amuck, and I kill you anyway."

"My way, Sam lives," she countered.

"How do I know you won't try to kill me if I let you out?"

"You don't."

Limping back to the door, he peered at her. "I don't buy it. Why would you _want_ to die?"

She was looking down, her hair covering her face. At his question, she slowly lifted her head, her hair turning stringy and dingy, her eyes hollowing out, her face paling until she looked exactly like the image of the girl in the mirror. Dean, who had seen enough horror in his life to find Romero movies tame, shivered at the sight, thankful for the heavy steel door that separated them.

"I know what you know, Dean Winchester," she repeated, her voice that of a corpse. "I know there is only one reason you _don't_ want to die."

Dean swallowed, feeling as though he should protest but unable to find the words.

"I know you are haunted by the things that want your brother. And I know," she stood, her movements stuttering, stilted, as if she'd forgotten how to coordinate limbs and motion, "that if _they_ win…you lose _everything_."

"We're…," he croaked, clearing his throat, "not talking about me."

"I want this to end," she rasped, moving closer.

He could suddenly smell her, smell her age, her rot. "Why don't you just off yourself if you want it that bad?"

"I cannot," she lamented. "I've tried."

"So what's this? Suicide by hunter?" Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"_Use me_," she pleaded, her voice once more echoing in his head, tilting him off-balance, causing him to lose his grip on the door. "End this!"

Dean's knees buckled and he went down hard to his hip, catching himself with one hand. His cell phone clattered free from his pocket and lay gleaming in the dim light of the basement, taunting him. He stared at it for a moment afraid to reach out, afraid of the hope he felt sparking to light inside of him.

He needed _real_ hope in this moment, straight up, no chaser, and something inside him knew the moment he called Bobby, any chance of that would be destroyed. But Dean was a hunter. And a soldier. And he had a job to do.

He picked up the phone.

"Bobby?" He choked on the plea that surrounded the name.

"_Oh, thank God,"_ Bobby breathed. _"What happened? Are you okay? Where's Sam?"_

"I have an idea."

Bobby made a strange noise in the back his throat. _"Dean. Where are you?"_

"Sitting outside your panic room."

"_Dammit."_

"We can use the witch."

"_No, kid,"_ Bobby's voice was urgent. _"Listen to me. I want you to get up, go upstairs, and wait. You just wait for me."_

"We don't have that kind of time, Bobby."

He knew it was true the moment the words left his mouth. Time was breaking apart in his hands, an hourglass of moments slipping like sand through parted fingers. And Dean could feel his body slowly giving out; he wasn't going to be able to hold them off until Bobby arrived.

"_Dean."_ Bobby snapped an order around his name as if calling him to attention. _"I found Rufus. He's on his way back, but it's going to take a little time. Listen, there's a _reason_ he didn't want me going in that room without him."_

"Yeah, I know," Dean said tiredly, peering up at the opened window, knowing she heard every word. "'Cause the witch is a psychic."

"_Yeah, a very powerful one,"_ Bobby told him, not bothering to ask how he knew. _"But she can only work one person at a time."_

"Work them how?"

"_She tells you want you need to hear, shows you what you need to see, just so's she can get what she wants."_

"Which is?"

"_Right now? I'm guessing she wants out of that panic room."_

_Use me._

The words were a whisper, a caress on his mind, so similar a touch to Castiel's voice that Dean found himself instinctively looking for the trench coat-wearing angel, his mind slipping and catching on the fine line between reality and memory.

"She wants me to use her, Bobby. She's offering herself up as demon bait."

"_Dean, no. Listen to what you're saying!"_

Dean sat up a little straighter. "Hey, it ain't my ritual, Bobby!"

"_She's playing with you, Son. Using you to get free. You gotta…block her out of your head. Don't let her get to you."_

"You got a better idea? Someone here in town you don't like much you want me to burn up for you?"

"_I know this is awful, Dean. I know what you're going through—" _

Dean pushed to his knees. "No offense, Bobby, but you don't know shit. You have _no idea_ what you're asking me to do."

"_I'm asking you to save your brother!"_

"Fuck you! You don't get to tell me that, Bobby, not _you_!"

Dean felt a give in his chest as he roared the words; they rasped against his throat, tearing against the flesh there. His eyes burned and he heard his breath tremble has he exhaled.

"You _don't_ know," he said quietly, his lips brushing the mouth of the phone as he held it close, unable to find a way to tell Bobby that he could still remember how it felt to kill, to burn, to torture. The memories of that horror were as close as his next breath. "I would do _anything_ for Sam, Bobby."

"_I know you would, kid,"_ Bobby replied, his voice matching Dean's in volume.

"I just—" He couldn't complete the sentence. Just what? Found a line he wouldn't cross to save his brother? Had there ever been such a thing before?

"_I'm gonna figure out how to get the demon ash,"_ Bobby was promising him. _"But you _cannot_ use the witch."_

"Why?" Dean lifted heavy eyes to the opened window at the top of the heavy metal door. "You guys are going to kill her anyway."

"_It's not that,"_ Bobby said, static cutting across his words. _"Don't want…lose you…."_

"Bobby?"

"…_kill you…Dean?"_

"I'm here."

"_She'll kill you, Son,"_ Bobby said quickly, as if afraid he wouldn't get the words out completely. _"She'll play with your mind, get her way, and kill you before you have a chance to sic a demon on her."_

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean asked his friend helplessly. "I can't let him die, Bobby. Not—" _again_, his mind whispered a finish to his choked sentence.

He'd lost Sam too many times already. To Jake's knife. To demon blood. To doubt about his purpose in life. To the shotgun blast of a hunter bent on revenge. He'd turned himself inside out to keep Sam safe and it seemed that if there was any destiny he was sure of, it was that of losing Sam. And he was not going to let that win. Heaven and Hell be damned.

"_Let me think. We'll figure it out. Dean?"_

"Yeah," he grunted.

"_Block her out. Don't let her get to you. Trust me on this."_

"What are you going to do?" Dean rubbed his face tiredly. He needed a plan. Action. A path to follow.

"_I'm gonna make a few calls. I'm only about four hours away. I'll call you back."_

Dean sat listening to the dial tone for a moment before slowly closing the phone and letting his hand fall by his side. His eyes were heavy, too heavy, almost, to lift up to the window at the top of the door.

"You heard all of that, didn't you?" He didn't even bother raising his voice.

"Of course," the witch answered him.

"So, is he right? You gonna try to kill me?"

"There is always that possibility." A smirk twisted the shape of her words as they filtered through the heavy door. "Some things you just have to take on faith."

Dean almost laughed. "Faith," he repeated bitterly. "I thought you said you know what I know."

"Yes," she replied. "As it pertains to this situation."

"Well, sister," he grunted as he pushed himself slowly to his feet, putting most of his weight on his right leg, "you're short a few key facts, then."

He peered through the window, observing the fact that she'd returned to her Kindergarten teacher form. Or maybe she'd always looked that way and the rotting hag with the dead, blood-shot eyes had been a horrific image she'd projected into his mind—along with the mirror reflection, the shadows, the voice in his head….

"Do tell," she prompted, raising an eyebrow at him, but not moving.

He gripped the door hinges for balance. "Lost any faith I might've had right about the same time God pretty much gave us the finger."

She tilted her head, her eyes softening at the edges until she looked almost normal. "Well, if it's lost then it can be found."

Dean blinked at her. "What?"

"It hasn't been destroyed," she pointed out. Then, with the grace of a dancer, she stood from the cot and approached the metal door with small, measured steps. "You still believe in _something_. The Neresits are called Hell Bearers because they bear the souls of the marked to Hell. The demons erase any evidence of humanity and the person who once was, burns for eternity."

Dean watched her eyes, unable to tear his gaze from her face.

"The only cure is to kill. And by killing, you mark your soul." Her voice softened as she drew closer to the door. "The demons _destroy_ any chance at salvation. And yet," she reached up and wrapped slim, white fingers around the short bars situated in the small window, "you are still trying to save him. _Because you have faith_."

She said the last in his head, her lips closing around her teeth in a tight grimace of a smile.

"What are you doing to me?" Dean asked in a low growl.

"Merely pointing out that you aren't as empty as you believe yourself to be."

He felt the room shift around him, his body weighted with a bone-deep ache. "Quit messin' with my head," he muttered, stumbling back from the door.

"Use me and I will," she snapped. "It's already a mess in there anyway. All twisted paths and brick walls."

"Hey," Dean protested. "Who asked you anyway?"

"He is dying," she told him once more. "Use me and _end this_."

"No," Dean shook his head, limping back another step. "Bobby's right. You just want to get the hell out of there."

He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose. The wound on his forehead throbbed as his skin brushed against it.

_They're getting stronger._

"Stop it!" he ordered.

_They're coming back._

Dean reached into his back waistband and pulled his .45 free, pointing it helplessly at the door. Logic was slowly dying inside of him. He knew he wasn't going to shoot her through the door, but he had to get her to _stop_. Even if it meant setting her free.

"Burning out the day," he tried, his voice wavering as he backed up one more step, the barrel of the gun aimed more or less at the padlock on the door, "burning out the night."

She began to hum, picking up the rhythm and tempo of the song he was quoting, her voice somehow both innocent and evil. Dean felt his blood slip cold beneath his skin, raising gooseflesh on his arms and neck and snapping his spine straight.

She wasn't using _this_. Not this. He wouldn't let her.

"I'm living for giving the devil his due," he whispered, and then before he could talk himself out of it, he fired.

The bullet ricocheted off the metal door, missing the lock. Sparks reflected in his eyes for a moment. He fired again, the lock bouncing loudly against the door from the impact of the bullet, but not breaking open. He blinked wide, trying to focus. The room seemed to tilt, throwing shadows across the lock and making it impossible for him to aim.

_I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you._

"Dean!" The voice was far away, above him.

"Sam," he whispered, staring at the black mark his bullet had made on the metal door.

"Use me, Dean!" The witch's voice was ragged and desperate. "I'm your only chance!"

"_Dean! _Where are you?"

Ignoring her final plea, he turned at the sound of Sam's panicked cry and limped up the stairs.

"I'm coming, Sam," he called out to his brother, his mind slipping on the disappointment of lost opportunity, grappling for purchase on another option, something that would still give him the chance to save Sam.

Dean pressed his hand against the wall for balance, the gun still gripped there thumping noisily as he made his way down the hall. He was in a world of _hurry_ to get to Sam, but it was becoming increasingly hard to move when the world hung at an angle. He turned the corner, blinking against the light from the lamp on Bobby's desk.

Sam was half-sitting on the couch, his ankles still tied, and holding his arm out before him. He'd ripped the loosely-wrapped gauze from the wound and was staring with horror at the bite marks. By the expression on Sam's face, Dean half-expected to see teeth protruding from the wound when he limped closer, but other than the black-veined markings having faded a bit, everything looked exactly as it had when he left moments ago.

"What is it?" Dean asked, worriedly.

Looking up, Sam gasped. "Oh, my God, what happened to your face?"

Dean instinctively reached up, touching his own cheek. "What? Did she turn me green or something?"

"You're covered in blood!" Sam exclaimed. "What the hell happened here?" He looked around, sounding completely bewildered. "Why are we at Bobby's? Why am I tied up? What _happened_ to you?"

Dean stared at his frightened, confused brother for several seconds before he was able to take a breath. "Sam," he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. "We were on a hunt. The Neresit, you remember?"

Sam blinked at him, his eyes wide, young, and terrified. "The…what?"

"It bit you," Dean went on. "Marked you for possession."

Sam's eyes dropped to Dean's bloody leg. "Did it bite you, too?"

Dean shook his head. "Scratched me. I'm okay."

"Okay? You look half-dead!" Sam searched Dean's face with bleary, fever-bright eyes. "Where's Bobby?"

"He's on his way," Dean limped closer. "You…you really don't remember?"

Sam rubbed his face gingerly, as if he were afraid of pushing his head free of his shoulders. "I…it's like a really…messed up dream."

"It isn't a dream, Sammy," Dean said softly. "It's real. And I'm working on a way to fix it."

"Fire," Sam whispered, his hands still over his face. "They said I would burn. I could see it. I could see me burning."

Dean swallowed, nodding. "It's the demons. Or maybe that witch, I don't know. But it's not real."

Sam dropped his hands, his dark-lined face pale as he lifted his eyes back to Dean's face. "What? What are you…. Is it _real_ or not? Everything is tangled up and I—"

He broke of the words with a gasp, his eyes suddenly going wide and scared.

"Sam?" Dean reached out, resting his hand on Sam's shoulder. "What is—"

Sam's head snapped back. The scream seemed to come from his gut, shaking through him and bowing him backwards against the couch. It wasn't a scream of pain as much as of fear, but it was enough to send Dean to his knees, his hands pressing on Sam's chest, shoulders, face. Trying to get his brother to stop, to open his eyes, breathe, _something_.

After what felt like hours, Sam's scream faded and he lay trembling on the couch, his face wet from unbidden, desperate tears, his hand fumbling for Dean's dirt-covered T-shirt. Dean found his brother's fingers and closed his fist around them, anchoring Sam's grip in his shirt.

"No more," Sam whispered, "_please_."

"I'm trying, man," Dean told him. "I swear to _God_ I'm trying."

"Just let 'em take me," Sam begged, blinking up at Dean, tears flooding his eyes, gathering his lashes. "Just get it over with."

"You remember now?" Dean asked, relieved to see the weight of awareness replace the confusion in Sam's expression.

Sam nodded, the tears running sideways down his cheek and dripping onto Bobby's couch. "You're gonna be next," he sniffed. "They're gonna make me kill you, man."

"Nobody's doing any killing," Dean told him harshly. "And there's no fuckin' way I'm letting them take you."

"Dean, we could _end this_," Sam said, opening his eyes wide with the possibility. "All of it."

Dean shook his head. "No."

"But, Dean," Sam almost pleaded, his mouth tipping down at the corners in a broken-hearted frown. "If you let them take me, the angels lose."

"_Everybody_ loses if we lose you, Sammy." Dean's voice broke through his clenched teeth; tears built at the back of his throat, the hot threat of defeat choking him. "Don't you give up on me, man."

"I can't block them out anymore, Dean," Sam closed his eyes. "I'm not as strong as you."

"Yes, you are, dammit. You _are_."

Sam shook his head slowly. "I feel them pulling at me. From the inside. It's making me crazy."

Dean dropped his chin to his chest, only then noticing the slide of a tear from his burning eyes as it gave in to gravity and dropped to Sam's shirt. Pressing his lips tight against his teeth, he pulled a breath in through his nose and slowly lifted his head.

_I wanted so badly to believe there was a way out of this._ His entire being felt as if it were made of lead.

In that moment he felt that if there really was a destiny for him, it was that he would lose: Sam, his life, his salvation, his soul. That is what the universe expected from him. That is what God designed for him.

_Over my dead fuckin' body,_ he thought. _You're. Not. Getting. Him._

"If they want you," he said, his voice aged, "they have to go through me."

"Dean." It was a shadow of Sam's usual tone. "No."

Untangling Sam's hand from his shirt, Dean pushed himself to a shaky stance. "I have an idea."

It was the only way. The only way to save Sam.

"Don't leave!" Sam pushed himself up to his elbows, the inked lines of his veins drawing paths of pain across his face.

"You stay here, man, okay?" Dean glanced up at the Devil's Trap. "You stay safe, you hear me? _Do it_ this time," he pointed at his brother, "no matter what you hear. You _don't_ come after me."

"Dean!"

"I'll be back." Dean dropped his .45 in the weapons bag and picked up the sawed-off shotgun and a handful of rounds. Straightening he turned to look over his shoulder at Sam. "I swear I'm coming back."

Sam didn't say another word as Dean stepped back over the salt line, but his eyes followed Dean as he walked from the room.

"Bobby's _so_ gonna kick my ass," Dean muttered to himself, loading the rock salt rounds into the shotgun.

All he needed to remove the padlock and chain from the panic room door was a pair of bolt cutters. He knew Bobby had some in his garage, but he also knew there were some even closer: the tool belt on the front seat of the stolen Nova.

He just had to get across the salt line, get to the car, grab the belt, and get back again.

Without getting swarmed by demons.

He cocked the shotgun, the echo of the chambered round bouncing off of the silent walls. Even the witch had ceased her seemingly relentless pursuit of his sanity. Opening the door, Dean spared a breath for a small prayer.

"Cas…if you're still out there…sure could use a friendly face right about now…."

He didn't expect an answer; part of him feared his friend had been overwhelmed by the demons back at the abandoned hospital. But as he stepped out onto the porch, the barrel of the shotgun held at a right angle from his body, he felt less alone then he had since they'd set out in pursuit of the Neresit. He saw the Nova parked directly across from the house, roughly eight feet away from the salt ring.

The moon was slipping lower in the pre-dawn sky, the earth coloring it with a yellowish tinge. The wind stroked his hot cheek like the backs of fingers and he pulled his brows close, peering into the dark corners of the shadowed salvage yard. The dried blood on his forehead and around his eyes seemed to crinkle with the motion, the still-opened wound stinging as the cooler air brushed it.

One leg trembling so badly it was practically useless, the other aching from the strain of holding his weight, Dean limped forward, pausing at the edge of the porch to look down either side of the lot, eyes thirsty for light, both wanting and _not_ wanting to see the frothing, purple-tinged clouds indicating demonic activity.

The words of an exorcism rite poised on the edge of his tongue, Dean stepped off the porch into the lot, his entire body taunt. He felt like a guitar string twisted one turn too tight. Another step toward the edge of the salt line, a pressure built in his ears and he began to whisper the exorcism. He doubted it would do any good, not with Sam providing an anchor for them to stay. But much like the bullet-proof covers of his childhood bed, whispering the words gave him the courage to go further into the night.

As his boot hovered over the edge of the salt line, he heard the decidedly inhuman shriek cut across his ears and rumbled the Earth. He put his foot down on the other side of the line and he could suddenly smell them. The curdle of sulfur overpowered the crisp scent of dried leaves and rain.

Dean tried to look everywhere at once.

He couldn't see them yet, but he knew they were close. He broke into a weak, lurching run, eyes pinned to the Nova, shotgun gripped in his hand. Seven feet. Six. Five—

This time when they hit he was sure bones broke. They crashed into him with the force of a speeding car, slamming him into the dirt so hard the breath exploded from his lungs. He would have gasped for air had he not been twisted around, turned, and rolled. Unsure which way was up, he pulled both triggers of the shotgun, remembering how they'd retreated before.

But there was no angel to keep them away this time.

The tentacle-like reach slapped him, stinging him with a touch so hot it was cold. He felt as if he were freezing to death and burning alive at the same time. He lost all sense of direction, of time, of reason. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, and the only thing he could hear was the _click-slice_ of the demon cloud as it worked to devour him whole.

When darkness finally claimed him, his last thought was _end this_….

www

**Continued soon in…the Last Four Hours….**

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><p><strong>an:** Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying; there's more to come!

**Playlist:**

_Lonely Is the Night_ by Billy Squier

_Burning Down the House_ by Talking Heads (cover on soundtrack will be by The Used)

_Burning For You_ by Blue Oyster Cult

And a reminder, a story fanmix/soundtrack will be available with the final chapter (over on my LiveJournal).


	3. The Last Four Hours

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** see Part 1

**Warnings:** There is mention of torture (from Dean's tour in Hell) in this fic.

**a/n: **Thanks so much for all of your feedback! I feel a bit like I'm spamming you this week between replies, episode reviews, and chapter updates, but I hope it's all worth it and you're not sick of me. If I haven't replied to your review yet, I promise I will. I have to travel this week, so there will be some airport time when we can 'chat.' *grins*

This chapter was a test for me on multiple levels, for multiple reasons. I truly hope you enjoy!

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><p><em>"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it."<em>

_~J.K. Rowling via Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows_

**Part Three: The Last Four Hours**

_**Hour Five**_

He was breathing dirt.

It pressed around him, clinging to his skin, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth, preventing him from taking the breath he so desperately wanted—_needed_—to take but if he did he knew would choke, drowning on earth. He began to thrash, to move, his fingers seeking what his lungs could not find.

Instinctively, he reached up as the dirt gave way, something deep within, tucked in the cells of his body, remembering that he was _beneath_ the earth, buried. His lungs burning with a special fire he'd not known before this moment, his efforts increased, his brain struggling, misfiring, thoughts half-formed, need reduced to one thing: _air_.

He felt the earth shift, felt his hands breech the prison of dirt and grass and worms and roots. Pushing forward, feeling that he was on the edge of freedom, he struggled upward, elbows cresting, then his right shoulder and suddenly—

The gasp was almost despairingly familiar as he coughed the dust of death from his body, drinking in the sweet, sustaining oxygen. Without opening his eyes, he continued to pull his body from the grave—for he knew now it was a grave…_his_ grave to be exact—reaching, clawing for purchase on the long grass growing up around the make-shift cross marking the body of Dean Winchester.

He'd been there before. He'd felt all of this before.

Lying on his back, he drank up the warmth of the sun, relishing in the natural light, remembering all-too-well the dark of Hell, the shimmer and dance of firelight, the glint of metal. He knew that he would have to rise and walk, find out where he was, where Bobby was, where Sam was. He knew because he'd done it before, and now, because fate was cruel and the universe was bent on twisting him up until there was nothing recognizable left, he was going to have to do it again.

Rolling to his stomach, he pushed himself to his knees, grateful that at least he was free of the wounds he remembered carrying with him into the dark. He body was whole; the biggest need he had right now was for water. But thirst wouldn't kill him quickly.

He knew that for a fact.

Standing, he looked around for the first time, frowning as the woods seemed familiar, but for all the wrong reasons. This wasn't where Sam had buried him. He would never forget that place. Never forget standing for the first time, befuddled and scared and grateful, and turning to see a crude wooden cross, the initials D.W. carved as if by the grip of a child. Seeing the trees laid out around that cross like a bomb had been dropped, leveling the forest in a perfect circular pattern.

If he'd died—and he was sure he had…those demons had meant business—then he was either alive _again_ or this was one twisted up Heaven.

"Damn sure ain't Hell," he croaked, ridiculously happy to hear his own voice.

He started forward, remembering that he should find a road somewhere nearby, through the trees. But as he walked through the scattered beams of sunlight, the stillness of the woods began to weigh on him. It was as if he'd gone deaf—or the woods were so loud it was quiet. He could _feel _life around him, the wind on his face, the thrum of heartbeats midst the trees.

But he heard nothing.

Continuing on, he kept his eyes out for the road. The last time he'd died, Castiel had told him to look for a path to follow. He'd already been on a road at the time. Stood to reason…since he was _pretty_ sure he was dead…there would be a road this time as well.

He stopped when he saw the cabin.

It was another place he'd never forget. And it wasn't supposed to be here. Not _here_, where Sam had buried him. They'd left this place behind in Missouri. Dad had been bleeding from a gunshot wound, and he had been bleeding from the inside out, his heart literally wrenched in his chest from the invisible grip of a demon—one that he was destined to kill a year later.

Approaching the cabin cautiously, he peered in through a window, unable to see the interior and reassure himself of what he might find inside. Taking a breath, he made his way to the door. It gave way without resistance and he stepped inside to find that rather than resembling the place his possessed father had tortured him, it was his childhood home in Lawrence.

"Okay, what the hell?" he said out loud, his voice sounding rough to his ears, as if he'd spent the last several hours screaming. He looked around, ready to be let in on the joke. "What is this, Worst Hits of Your Life?"

Nothing answered him. Not one breath of sound.

"Seriously, what's going on?" He demanded, turning in a circle. "Cas? Sam? Anyone out there?"

He crossed the dimly lit, shadowed room to look out through the back window. Behind the cabin, the woods disappeared to reveal the muddy, abandoned lot of Cold Oak. Catching his breath, he realized he could see where the mud was stained dark from Sam's blood. Shooting a glance to his right, he saw a side door off the interior of the Lawrence living room was slightly ajar. With everything in him, he knew that if he approached that door, he'd see his brother laying on a bare mattress, dead, his blood adding to the faded stains.

"Hey!" He shouted, looking up at the empty ceiling. "You guys run out of ideas or something?"

"Dean."

The voice was familiar. And impossible.

And the last time he'd heard it, it had been to tell him how worthless he was, remind him that everyone left him. He felt his breath escape, his chest caving in as he curled forward in an unconscious act of protection. He lowered his eyes, turning slowly to face the center of the room.

And she was there.

Dressed in jeans and a white shirt and not, thankfully, the white gown she'd been sleeping in when she died, his mother stood watching him, her long, blonde hair pushed back away from her face and trailing down her back, her mouth set in a grim line, her blue eyes steady and serious.

Dean looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. "What are you doing here?" He couldn't bring himself to call her _Mom_.

"We need to talk," she told him, shifting her weight to one leg and crossing her arms over her middle. It was such a natural, easy position he was _almost_ willing to believe she wasn't planted there to further torture him.

"Why?" he challenged. "You got more to tell me about how much of a burden I was? How I got you killed?"

Mary opened her mouth, but he didn't let her speak.

"'Cause I happen to know _for a fact_ that it wasn't me. And it wasn't Sam." He took a step forward, his body strangely light without pain weighing him down. He glared at the figure of his mother, his brows pulled tight over the bridge of his nose, his eyes hot, his mouth a tense line. "I saw what happened. I was _there._"

"When I saved your father's life, you mean?" Mary challenged, tilting her head and lifting her chin so that she could maintain eye contact as he advanced. "When I made a deal with Azazel, not knowing what it would do to my children? Is that what you saw happen?"

Dean swallowed, his incensed advanced halted by her honesty and ownership. "Uh," he blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty much it."

"You're not dead this time, you know." Mary's mouth quirked in a sad impression of a grin.

Dean glanced around him. "Well," he said, exhaling carefully. "If I were, this would be a new way to let me know. I mean, I've been to Hell. And I've been to Heaven—"

"Not really," Mary interrupted.

"Not really?" Dean repeated, looking back at his mother, his resolve that she was a tool to hurt him rapidly fading as she continued to act…well, like the mother he remembered.

"Sweetie," Mary replied, her eyes soft. "Do you really think you'd end up in a Heaven without your family? Without _everything_ you'd sacrificed for?"

Dean frowned. "Sam was there."

Mary nodded, unfolding her arms and tucking her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans. "In a way, yes."

Dean began to circle her. Mary stayed still, dropping her eyes to the floor, waiting him out.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean challenged.

Mary waited until he'd come back around to face her and looked him in the eye. "You were played, Dean. Pure and simple. And so was Sam."

"Really," he replied dryly. "So what's this?" He spread his arms wide to take in the darkened, quiet living room of his childhood home. "Heaven got to mess with my memories, now Hell gets a chance? This the universe's version of good cop, bad cop?"

Mary let a small chuckle slip out, then schooled her mouth, quickly. "You're funny. You get that from your dad."

Dean pulled his head back, his eyes on hers. "I'm not saying 'yes.'" He narrowed his eyes at her. "So, you can just go back and tell your boss—"

"This has nothing to do with vessels," Mary broke in. "This is about _you_, Dean."

"Who _are_ you?"

Sighing, Mary dropped her arms and lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his without apology. "I am your mother," she said quietly. "I am every memory, every longing, every thought you ever had of her. I am the same girl you met back in '73, the one the child in you remembers, and the one the man in you misses."

"Then who was that…person in…," he tried to finish, but found his mouth had gone dry, his eyes burning.

"She was your mother, too," she said, sadness shifting across her unlined face to mar her eyes. "Just a twisted version of her."

She stepped forward, close enough to touch, and it was all Dean could do to hold himself still. "I _love_ you, Dean. I don't blame you for what happened to me."

Dean swallowed, wanting to believe.

"I didn't want to die." Mary frowned, her eyebrows pulling together. "I wanted to be there when Sam learned to walk…when you went to Kindergarten…when you had your first fight, your first kiss, your first…everything. But you know better than anyone that we don't always get what we want."

Dean felt tears press against the backs of his eyes, his breath catching on hooks of hesitation in his lungs. "You're…real?"

"I'm as real as your memories, kiddo," she smiled.

"But…why…?"

Mary dropped her chin and looked up at him through her lashes. "Because. We need to talk," she repeated. "You can't keep this up, Dean."

"Keep…what up?" he stared at her, confused.

"You're skimming by without the tiniest thread of hope," Mary told him. "You're on autopilot. You're _barely _existing."

"There's stuff happening, right now…," he looked down, turning away to cross over to the window and stare out at the barren landscape of Cold Oak. "You don't want to know about it all."

"I already know," she told him, crossing the room to stand beside him, close enough to touch, but not reaching out. "I know what you've been through. I know what you're facing. And I am here to tell you that you're not going to make it through this fight without a little hope."

Dean looked askance at her, his heart lead-heavy, his will whisper-thin. "I don't know if I want to make it through this fight."

"Dean."

The way she barked his name had him flinching and turning to face her, chagrined. She sounded like…Sam. Her arms were crossed once more, her eyes level and serious.

"I do _not_ want to hear those words from you again, do you hear me?"

"You don't know—"

"I know enough," she interrupted, her voice clipped, her eyes flinty. "I know you've done your job—over and above anything your father and I could have hoped for."

Dean looked at her, daring for a moment to believe her words. Believe she was real. He held his right hand in his left, rubbing his fingers.

"I know you gave yourself up for your brother, Dean. I know what you went through so that he could live."

"This…," he shook his head, feeling the pressure at the base of his throat threaten to choke him once more. "This is so much more than that. It's…it's bigger than us, Mom."

The name slipped out without him thinking, sliding over his lips and into the air between them so naturally, so simply he didn't have time to draw it back. Mary took a quick, shuddering breath, then looked over her shoulder as if for help.

Dean wasn't given time to breathe before a hand slid to her shoulder, as if bracing her, and from the shadow of the cabin windows the rest of John Winchester emerged.

His face was clean-shaven, his brown eyes as peaceful as Dean had never seen them. Dressed in the layered denim-over-cotton style his sons had mirrored, John looked as if he'd just come in from working on the Impala's engine, his wide mouth relaxed, his body close to Mary's in an easy connection that caught at Dean's heart, pressing it against his ribcage.

"Dad?" Dean whispered, shocked, uncertain.

John's smile was soft, care-worn, and happy.

"Hiya, Dean."

If he wasn't still convinced that Sam's dead body lay on a bed in the room beyond, and if he couldn't still see Cold Oak out through the cabin windows, Dean might have been willing to sink into this moment completely, letting it absorb him and embrace him and keep him from ever having to return to the pain and loneliness that awaited him outside of this room.

"Wh-what…how…?"

"Memories are powerful things," John told him. "Yours, especially."

"You don't forget _anything_," Mary chimed in with a watery laugh.

Dean wanted to reach out to them, pull them close, but some instinct told him to stay still, as if he knew the minute he touched them this would all be shattered and he'd be breathing dirt once again. He couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, where to rest his eyes. He wanted to turn away, ground himself in a place where it was safe to look, safe to believe, but he couldn't stop staring at them.

"Take a breath, Son," John ordered. "We need to talk."

"That's a popular opinion 'round here," Dean replied, his voice tremulous.

John stepped out from behind Mary, standing next to her. As Dean watched, Mary slipped her hand into John's, their finger's lacing in an instinctual, natural way of two people accustomed to each other's presence, nearness, balance.

"Listen," John said. "Dean." His voice hardened, drawing Dean's eyes from their interlocked hands to his father's face. "You listening?"

"Yessir," Dean answered automatically.

"You will not give in to these bastards."

Dean huffed in spite of himself. "Which bastards do you mean, Dad?" He rubbed his face, surprised to find that his skin was smooth—no wound bisected his forehead. "The demons or the angels?"

"You have to survive the demons in order to resist the angels," Mary pointed out.

Dean half turned from his parents. "Maybe Sam was right, though," he sighed. "Maybe…maybe this is how we stop the Apocalypse. We let the demons win this round and the angels—"

"No, Dean," John broke in. "You will _not_ give in to these bastards."

Dean turned, anger suddenly burning like acid on his heart, wanting to confront his father, to lay into him; for burdening him with an impossible secret and then _dying_ on him before telling him what to do about it; for not being there when he'd been out of choices and Hell had ripped him apart; for leaving them alone to figure out how to handle a royally fucked up destiny—

He didn't realized he was crying until Mary reached out, her cool—very real—hand smoothing the tears from his hot face as her eyes welled in response.

"I don't want to do this anymore." He whispered the confession to her. "I don't want to go back."

"Yes, you do," she countered. "You're a fighter, Dean. You don't give up. You don't give in."

"But," he sniffed, looking down as the tears gathered on his lashes, tripping down his face in unashamed release. "I'm just…I'm _tired_, Mom. I'm tired of fighting all the time," he raised his eyes, taking them both in, "and always losing."

"Dean…." John started and Dean saw that his lips were trembling, though his eyes were steady.

"Your brother needs you, Dean," Mary whispered, interrupting her husband. "He is lost without you. Empty. You are two halves of a whole."

Dean shook his head. "Can't help but think he'd be better without me—"

"That's where you're wrong," John broke in, his voice picking up energy as if finding a thread of solution in his wife's words. "Your mom and I…we never wanted this for you two. We never planned on this. But this is what we got. This is our family legacy."

"What? You two dead and Sam and I as angel condoms?" Dean sniffed, dragging a hand down his face to banish the last of the tears clinging there.

Mary's mouth curved again and Dean saw John squeeze her hand as if in caution.

"You two are all that stands between humanity and chaos," John said.

"Humanity _is_ chaos, Dad," Dean protested. "Nothing makes sense anymore."

John released Mary's hand and closed the space between them until Dean could feel his father's breath on his face.

"Listen to me," John said, his voice low, his tone compelling Dean's obedience. "If there is one thing I _know_ I taught you, it was to fight. To never _stop_ fighting. And you do that better than any goddamn soldier I've ever known."

Dean swallowed, watching his father, his jaw tight.

"And this is when you have to fight the hardest," John continued. "When you have angels lying to you and God is hiding and all you've got on your side is your brother, _this_ is when you fight the hardest."

John reached up and took Dean's face in his hand, his thumb on one cheek, his fingers on the other. Dean caught his breath. In that moment, staring at his father, he wanted _so badly_ to believe.

"You look them in the eye. You don't flinch, you don't fail. And you fight back because you_ know_, Son. You know you are right. You know you will win. When it's all done, _you will win_."

"I don't…_how_ do I know that?"

"Because," John said, his eyes filled with more than just _this_ moment. More than just _this_ fight. "I just told you."

When John released his face and smiled, stepping back next to Mary, Dean felt a weight press on his shoulders, heavy and unmoving. Every battle he'd fought, every fight he'd survived, they were wasted if he backed down now. If he gave in. But he felt like the rope in a tug-of-war between opposing sides of the universe…and he was stretching thin.

Dean's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. "If you're just my memories…and this is just a dream, then—"

"Then you need to wake up, Dean," Mary said gently. "Wake up."

Dean looked at his father. "But—"

"Wake up, Son," John nodded, wrapping an arm around Mary's shoulders. "You _end this_."

Dean looked out through the cabin window, watching as Cold Oak faded away and Singer Salvage came into view.

"Wake up, Dean," Mary told him, her tone becoming urgent. "Dean!"

He looked back at her only to realize she wasn't standing in front of him anymore. In fact, nothing was. Not the living room, not the cabin, not even the woods. There was nothing there but black and emptiness and a strange sort of weightless peace. For the briefest of moments, he wanted to retreat into this void, hide here forever.

But a push in his mind, like the shove of a hand on his memory, sent him mentally staggering forward and he heard his father's voice speaking in a tone that denied resistance.

"Dean! Wake up. And _fight_."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hour Six<strong>_

Dean opened his eyes.

There was no gradual transition from the peaceful oblivion of a dream state to the cruel flash of awareness. There was just nothing and then _everything_, the pain driving home the fact that he was, in fact, not dead. He blinked, surprised to realize that the beginnings of dawn had turned the edges of the horizon a pale gray as the sun sluggishly worked to take back its hold from the cloying night.

It took him a moment to draw a breath. The pain in his chest was sharp, like a stab through his side, piercing his lungs and pinning him to the ground. Once he drew one breath, though, he needed another, then another, gasping for air like a drowning man. The air seemed to soothe the pain, easing the ache in his lungs and returning feeling to his tingling extremities.

Rolling from his back to his side, Dean tried to push himself upright only then realizing that it was a wonder he was _allowed _to be upright. Allowed to breathe, for that matter.

It was quiet. A fact that struck Dean with a bone-deep fear.

He managed to balance his wavering body in a seated position, but blinked dumbly as he felt something wet drip from his face to his dirt-smeared lap. Reaching up with a dirty, shaking hand, he dabbed at his face, feeling a cut across the bridge of his nose, the puffy, tender skin around his left eye, and the now freely-bleeding gash on his forehead. His nose itself was bleeding, but upon further inspection, didn't seem to be broken.

Carefully, he ran his hands down his torso, checking his arms for additional wounds. His bones did not appear broken, though he had accumulated multiple abrasions on his arms, and his T-shirt was ripped across the chest, exposing a wide scrape on his ribcage. He would have removed the ruined garment completely if he wasn't so cold. The wound on his leg had reopened and the make-shift bandage was down around his ankle.

He pulled it off awkwardly, gasping as he struggled to his knees. And then he realized where he was: inside the salt ring. Looking carefully over his shoulder as the world seemed to twist, he saw that the attack had pushed him over the protective line—smearing it, but not breaking it. Swallowing, he waited on his knees until the world righted itself once more. Then he stood, wavering in the gray light of pre-dawn, staring at Bobby's house.

Every light was on. Dean blinked sluggishly; the observation and its ramification slow to marry in his stunned mind. Someone was in that house. Someone was _in the house_ _with Sam_.

_Bobby?_

He dismissed the thought the moment it came to him. Bobby wouldn't have left him lying bleeding and unconscious in the salvage yard, no matter how worried he was about Sam. He took a shallow breath. And since the salt ring was still in one piece that meant one thing: witch.

Dean wanted to get inside, check on Sam, but he was hardly prepared to take on a witch that powerful with his bare hands. And he knew that if Sam were still alive, he couldn't count on his wounded brother to help him.

_He's alive…he's alive alivealivealive—_

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to calm his panicked _what if_ thoughts and assess the situation. And then he realized the smell of sulfur still hung, wet and heavy, in the air.

Slowly opening his eyes, he turned in a wavering circle, facing away from the house…and he saw them. The demons had inexplicably pulled back, hovering high above in a twisting, festering mess of dark smoke. They seemed to be…waiting for something. Dean looked over his shoulder at the house.

Like a movie with pivotal moments edited out, memories of the past few hours crashed into Dean, making him stumble.

_Sam's blood is not like other humans. It has been changed through contact with demon blood. They will not be able to possess him, but they can still destroy him._

_It's easy when you have mind willing to believe._

_They won't stop! They won't shut the hell up!_

"Oh, you _bitch_," he spat as the realization broke over him.

The witch was free—somehow she was free and she was using Sam. Using Sam and calling the demons' attention. For what, he could only guess. But there it was.

Dean looked up at the cloud once more. Taking a slow, steady breath, he put one foot out of the salt ring, watching the demons. He half expected them to turn as one and attack. But they didn't move from their high-ground surveillance. The cloud was poised as if ready to pounce, rolling and twisting around itself like a sky-borne den of snakes.

Curling his fingers into tight fists and squaring his shoulders, Dean stepped all the way outside of the ring. Nothing.

"Shit," he breathed, bouncing his head with the curse. Glancing back at the house he muttered, "Said it before, I'll say it again. I friggin' _hate_ witches."

He needed to get in that house. Now.

"Okay, okay, think, Dean. Can't go in like this," he mumbled to himself, needing the sound of his own voice to balance. "Need some backup."

He needed weapons. Holy Water. Rock salt. _Something_.

He suddenly yearned for the Impala—and her virtual treasure trove of weaponry—with the pang of a lost lover. Patting his own pockets down, he felt the small dagger he'd slipped into his back pocket; the shotgun he knew he'd brought with him was several feet away, barrel glinting in the wan moonlight. As he made his way toward the weapon, his mind began to catch up to his circumstances.

There had been times before when he'd been fairly beaten up. Times when he'd been broken, bleeding, hurting to the point of fear. But rarely in those times had he ever been alone. His dad, brother, or Bobby had been near, aware, at least, of his pain, even if they hadn't been able to stop it right away. The only time he'd hurt like this, and felt so alone, he'd been on a rack.

In Hell.

_You look them in the eye. You don't flinch, you don't fail.  
><em>

Dean took a shuddering breath, shoving the ache down deep where it couldn't get in his way. His dad was right. He had a job to do. And he was damned if he was letting those bastards win.

He looked down at his watch, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand and sniffing as his nose throbbed in reaction. If he'd added right, Bobby wouldn't be getting there for a couple more hours. And his phone was in the house somewhere. He glanced over his shoulder. The garage was a good 30 feet from where he stood. But the demons were focused on the house—and Sam.

Could he make it?

"What the hell," he exhaled. "Not doing Sam any good standing here and wondering."

As he lurched in a staggering, almost zig-zagging run to the garage, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder at the threatening cloud, he made a plan. Blanking his mind to the specifics of _how,_ he reasoned that if he had all the components of the ritual in place—including his own blood—then all he'd need to do is get the witch out beyond the salt line, summon one of those vultures and light her up.

He'd made sacrifices for Sam before. He'd killed to save Sam before. He'd done this before...before Hell turned him sideways. Before he saw lines to be crossed where before there was nothing.

He reached the garage and sagged against the doorframe, gasping. His breath was hitching along his side, stabbing him with angry fingers. Pressing the flat of his hand against his ribs, he made his way inside the building, flicking on the overhead light and looking around. He knew Bobby weighed down the trunk of his rear-wheel drive cars on the slick mid-west roads with bags of salt, and his vigilance was rewarded: to the right of the doorway, he saw a yellow bag of rock salt.

Dean pulled out the dagger and quickly sliced open a bag, dumping it across the doorway and grabbing a few handfuls to line the solitary window—just in case that witch wasn't as captivating as she thought. Barrier in place, he turned to face the room. A humorless grin spread wide across his face as he took in Bobby's oddly organized workbench.

"Jackpot," he declared.

On the lowest shelf, Bobby had started several Molotov cocktails—all that was missing was the accelerant, which was, conveniently, stashed on the shelf above in a red gasoline can. Next to that was another can, clearly marked _Holy Water_ in permanent marker. Inside the center cabinet, glass doors revealing its contents, were jars of herbs with white labels identifying them.

Next to that cabinet were a series of hooks holding packets of spark plugs, fan belts looped in a figure eight, jumper cables, and an assortment of screws, nuts, bolts, and sockets. And stacked on the edge of the bench were several tiny cans of spray paint in various colors. Dean closed in on the workbench and pulled one of the lower drawers open. Next to the screwdrivers and wrenches he saw several boxes of shotgun shells. He picked one up and sniffed it. Gunpowder.

Putting it back, he pulled another from a different box. Rock salt. The extra rounds he'd brought with him were long gone. He pocketed several from the box and shoved two rounds in the gun he held loosely in his grip. He carefully filled two Molotov's with accelerant, knowing he wouldn't be able to carry more. Moving quickly, purpose giving him strength, he began to pull items from the cabinets and shelves, muttering softly to himself as he did so.

"Two parts boneset—whatever the hell that is—three parts caraway root…," he remembered from the ritual list. "Mix in a little guilty blood and some innocent victim and you got yourself a foolproof remedy for demon dog spit."

His hands moved, searching for the boneset and caraway root in the jars of herbs. Time was eating away at him; Sam was alone and wounded in that house and he _had to_ get in there. He had a promise to keep. He dumped the herbs in an empty Mason jar, then reached into his back pocket for the small dagger.

He was already bleeding from several places on his body, but none of them freely enough to add to the Mason jar concoction. Taking several deep breaths, he tightened his left hand in a fist, then dragged the blade across his forearm, tipping it so that the blood ran from the wound into the jar.

"God_damn_…," he growled the curse through clenched teeth. "Never gets easier."

When enough blood had been gathered to cover the herbs, he lifted his arm and wrapped a shop towel tightly around the wound.

"Done, done and I'm on to the next one," he whisper-sang.

Looping two fan belts together, he created a harness across his back for the loaded shotgun. Grabbing the two Molotov's, the jar of blood-herb paste, and a can of brown spray paint he turned and headed to the doorway, peering out. Nothing had changed. Bobby's house still blazed with light, the demons still hovered. If he was going to get to Sam, there was only one way to do it: haul ass to the front door. He began to move; his gait was steadier, his head clearer, but he wasn't moving fast enough, and his legs shook.

_Keep moving, don't stop,_ he admonished himself. He could collapse later, when this was done, and Sam was safe.

Dean reached the edge of the salt ring around the house and took a breath. He needed to be smart about this. One wary eye on the hovering cloud, he turned in a slow circle, spraying the ground on the outside of the salt ring, watching with satisfaction as the paint blended almost perfectly with the dirt. He set one of the Molotov's down outside the salt ring, then carefully stepped over the ring. Crossing to the porch, he set the second bottle down on the edge of the steps before climbing them and easing the door open.

The surplus of lights made him squint, flinching back slightly as his eyes reacted from the darker exterior. He didn't think he'd ever seen Bobby's house so brightly lit. As he stepped forward, his eyes caught on jars and books and stacks of boxes that had simply blended into the environment before. But illuminated as they were now, Dean was almost assaulted with the amount of _stuff_ in Bobby's house.

"Sam?" he called tentatively. "You…still there?"

The silence that greeted him turned him cold. He'd taken too long; he was too late.

"How 'bout you, Witchy Woman?" His voice was hard, fists at his sides. "You locked up tight?"

He stepped into the study as he said this and his breath stilled. The room was empty; the ropes securing his brother to the couch lying flaccid. He moved to the center of the room, setting the jar of blood and herbs on Bobby's desk before nudging the couch helplessly with his knee. At the sound of the furniture scraping across the wooden floor, the scream he'd first heard hours ago echoed through Bobby's house, cutting through him, making him wince and cover his ears.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. "Where the hell are you, man?"

"Here."

It wasn't Sam who answered him. It was the rasp of the aged, rotten voice he'd heard in his head. His heart stopped.

Reaching back between his shoulders to pull the shotgun free from its makeshift holster in one smooth motion, Dean turned to face the hallway and saw the witch standing next to Sam. His heart started once more at the sight of his brother, though the state Sam was in had his worry spiking to eleven.

Sam seemed disconnected, unaware. His head was down, arms hanging limply at his sides, eyes staring at nothing, lips parted. The witch had a hand on his wounded arm, somehow keeping him close with just that touch.

And she no longer resembled a Kindergarten teacher, nor looked like the corpse of a hag. She was slim, but powerfully built. The skin on her face was pulled tight over prominent cheek bones, her blonde hair falling back from wide, dark eyes. She was a mix of all images he'd seen up to this point; even her shadow shifted as if it were still intent on toying with him.

Dean cocked the shotgun, leveling the barrel at her. "What did you do to him?"

"I told you…, "she smiled, "all I needed was a willing mind. And his has been _so fun _to play with."

Dean's eyes flew from the loose ropes to the arm of the couch as he remembered stabbing the blade of the dagger there. "Shit."

Bobby was going to owe him the biggest _I told you so_.

"Now, as it seems your brother's popularity with our friends outside is my ticket out of here," the witch smirked, "I'll just be going—"

"Hold up." Dean lifted his chin. "What happened to _use me_? You suddenly find a reason to live?"

Arching a thin eyebrow, the witch subtly tightened her grip on Sam. "As have you, it would seem."

"You're not leaving here," Dean informed her, a sour smile turning his lips.

She squeezed Sam's wounded arm and Dean winced as Sam's head snapped up with a gasp of pain. Dean stared at his brother's dark-veined face, his eyes bloodshot and vacant, his lips pulled tight against his teeth in a horrid grimace.

"Let him go," he ordered, bringing the shotgun up to his shoulder. "NOW!"

She side-stepped so that she was slightly behind Sam. "You willing to risk hitting him just to get to me?"

"I won't hit him," Dean replied, certainty making his voice dangerous.

She stared at him, her wide eyes dark, her lips pulled back in a snarl. "From what I can tell, your friends out there don't much care what state your brother is in." Her hand slipped slowly up Sam's arm, long fingers wrapping around his bowed neck. "Maybe I'll just get this over with now, save them the trouble."

In that moment, Dean felt all of his regret, hesitation, and guilt slip free, sliding from his conscience like rainwater down a gully. He was willing kill this woman to save his brother. He'd kill her and not look back.

And he saw that realization crossed her face.

The lights around him began to flicker, sparks shooting from the outlets along the hallway. At one particularly loud _pop, _Dean looked over, instinctively, and the witch shoved Sam directly at him. Gasping, Dean dropped the gun, catching his brother as Sam's dead weight sent them both to their knees. Struggling out from beneath Sam, Dean brought the shotgun up just as the witch reached the door. He pulled the trigger, winging her and spinning her into the wall.

She opened her mouth, her lower jaw looking slightly unhinged, and screamed in rage—the same screech he'd heard from below when he'd moved the furniture into the Devil's Trap, only amplified tenfold as she faced him—her eyes bright and crazed. Crying out in pain and shock, Dean rolled back, curling inward, trying to keep his eyes on the witch, knowing she was his only chance.

The rock salt had peppered her left shoulder and arm and he could see the particles burning through her shirt, thin tendrils of smoke curling up from her skin. She panted, her eyes hot as she pushed herself away from the wall. His arms shook as he lifted the gun once more but this time she was ready.

With a snarl that twisted her face into something tortured and evil, the witch lifted her good hand, palm forward and thrust it at him. Dean felt his muscles coil, tensing, as he waited to be thrown back against the wall, but looked over in surprise when instead of moving him, the witch's power shoved Sam's limp body across the study into the center of the Devil's Trap, slamming him against the base of Bobby's desk.

Sam's eyes flew wide; he cried out with the impact and Dean saw the witch continue to push him, Bobby's desk creaking with the pressure of Sam's body. Sam gasped with pain and at the helpless sound, Dean came unglued.

Rage ignited in him with a fever-bright fire, turning him from a skilled, purposeful hunter into something wild. Ignoring his wounds and weakness, Dean flung himself at the witch with a roar of protest, slamming her bodily into the wall, breaking her hold on Sam. She looked at him, her bloodshot eyes wicked. Pushing at Dean's face, she worked to dislodge him, forcing him back.

Dimly, as if from a great distance, he heard a whisper in his head, words that had until this moment sent him spinning with fear.

_They're getting stronger._

"My mind's no so willing anymore," Dean growled, shoving her hard and reaching for the shotgun, "bitch."

She turned quickly, scrambling for the door. He fired, missed, reached into his pocket and brought out two more rounds. As she pulled the door open, Dean followed, sparing a glance at Sam's crumpled form.

Sam looked up, his eyes bleary, but coherent. "Go," he rasped.

Dean needed no further encouragement. He shoved the rounds into the barrel, snapped it shut with a loud, metallic _click_ and charged out of the door after her. She was nearing the edge of the salt ring when he fired again, this time hitting her square in the back with the rock salt, sending her spiraling across the edge of the ring, smearing it further. There was barely an edge now keeping the demons at bay.

"Shit," Dean breathed, grabbing the Molotov cocktail from the porch steps, holding it and the barrel of the gun in his right hand as he advanced.

The witch rolled over, her face contorting and twisting until he saw the hag once again, her corpse-like visage screaming at him in pain and anger.

"Back away," she growled, her voice deep, inhuman, frightening.

Dean raised the shotgun. "I can't do that."

The air around them began to rumble, vibrating with the ripple effect of a distant explosion. The witch continued to crawl backwards, obliterating the edge of the salt ring. Dean took a breath, stealing himself for the onslaught.

"When they take me, I'll escape," she predicted. "You can't win this one, boy!"

"Don't be so sure," Dean snapped at her, his eyes darting between the witch and the sky, watching for the fury of clouds above them.

"You want this too much," the witch said, suddenly rising to her feet with ease the rock salt wounds should not have allowed. "I can see it in your eyes. You would die to save him."

"Damn straight." Dean told her, lifting the barrel of the shotgun up away from her as he saw the snake-like arms of the demons cross the grey bruise of sky.

"_No one_ deserves that kind of love," she declared.

Dean leveled his gaze at her. "_He_ does."

She stared at him, eyes rounding with surprise, face softening, transforming to the innocent image he'd first seen through the window of the panic room, and in that moment, the demons struck, knocking her to the ground, one thick plume of purplish smoke raping her mouth as it drove inside her, filling her completely. Dean fired at the cloud, pushing them back, but he needn't have bothered.

They weren't coming for him.

The witch took a breath, sitting up, the bend of her legs and drape of her arm over her knee indicating the demon who'd taken her was most likely male.

"Hello, Dean," it grinned with the witch's mouth, turning her eyes onyx. Sliding the witch's hand to its back pocket, the demon drew forth the dagger that Dean had left too near Sam's reach. "You've been a naughty boy."

Dean felt his blood shiver. "Son of a bitch."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hour Seven<strong>_

"I remember you, you know," the demon said, standing up, but staggering slightly as the rock salt wounds in the body it controlled ate at it. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think the demon was drunk.

Dean took a step back, warily eying the storm of demons above him, unsure of what they were waiting for. The salt line was broken; there was nothing keeping them from taking him down for a death roll. He returned his eyes to the demon trying to control the body of the witch and saw that it was toying with the small dagger—the one Sam had used to free himself and, somehow, the witch.

"I remember you were his pet," the demon continued, stumbling sideways.

Eyes darting to the edge of the salt line, Dean swallowed. He had expected this. There had been so many; surely one of them would find him eventually. He wouldn't answer, wouldn't give it the satisfaction.

"I brought you that girl…the red head…," it told him. "Watched you wrap your fingers around her throat to get her to stop screaming. Mmm," it smiled with the witch's mouth, eyes rolling closed as if in pleasure. "Alistair was right—you really were a prodigy."

Dean tried to remind himself to keep breathing, to not listen, but he could remember a red haired girl. Remembered choking her into silence. He remembered it as if it were a movie he'd watched once—something he'd not _truly_ been a part of, but had affected him all the same.

His breath stuttered slightly as the vibrating air seemed to press around him. He knew he just had to wait…just wait.

"They don't want you," the demon told him, glancing up at the cloud swarming above him. "Not like they want him. But since we can't possess you Winchester boys, your brother's marker is really just a dick tease, you ask me."

The demon raised the witch's slim shoulders, rolling her neck and shaking her arms out as if trying to get comfortable in her skin. The dagger was held loosely in her left hand, fingers twisting the blade. "But," it continued, "what we _can_ do, is kill him and get this whole _will they or won't they _bullshit over with. I mean, enough is enough, don't you agree?"

Dean couldn't help himself. "Sure you want to do that? Your boss might get a little pissed if you take away his vessel."

The demon rolled its eyes. "He's not _my_ boss. Don't much care if he's pissed or not. I'm just tired have having him still around fuckin' up our plans," it said, tossing the witches chin in the direction of the house. "_Both_ of you, for that matter. Orders to not touch, orders to seek and find. Like we're _fetching_ him. Like we're dogs. What bullshit."

The snarl on the witch's mouth looked strangely at home. The demon dropped it's gaze from the house to rest on Dean. "Y'know... there's a few of us, myself included, who kinda respect you. I know Satan's got a hard on for your brother, but...," it shrugged, "we wouldn't mind having you play for the other team, if y'know what I mean."

"Fuck you," Dean snarled, his stomach twisting.

"Hey, it ain't all bad," the demon smiled, the witch's face a dark sneer. "I mean...I got me an army up there." He glanced toward the cloud. "They don't make a move unless I say so. Be kinda nice to have an army at your disposal, huh? Whole bunch of souls to protect your brother?"

Dean pressed his lips tight, narrowing his eyes, saying nothing.

"No? Eh, can't say I expected any different," the demon glanced past Dean to the house. "You realize all I have to do is say the word and they'll rip you apart just to get you out of the way before they take out your brother. But," the demon tilted its head, lips parting in a small, secret smile, "if there's one thing I learned from Alistair…it's that killing you is too damn easy. And torturing you is too damn fun."

Apparently thinking that line was clever enough to use as a catalyst for attacking, the demon started forward, dagger raised. Dean braced himself, and then exhaled a breath of thanks as the demon stopped dead at the edge of the salt ring, confusion etched on its face.

"You guys are so friggin' easy," Dean said, his lips daring to tip up to a grin. "I mean…did you think I'd just _let you_ kill us?"

The demon looked down and Dean allowed himself a moment of silent celebration as it discovered the Devil's Trap painted on the dirt with Bobby's spray paint. The rising sun slowly illuminated the horizon, its light diminished and dampened by the cloud of demons but still bright enough to show the demon riding inside the witch's body that he was stuck.

"This changes nothing," the demon declared. "You can't save him. We'll climb into his head, make him peel his skin from his bones and use it to strangle you."

Dean raised an eyebrow, the picture of calm, though inside he was shaking so badly his ribs were rattling. "Vivid. Really paint a nice picture there."

He didn't have much time left, he knew. His body was reacting to the damage done despite his mental attempts to ignore it, to force himself onward. He knew that the demon could still escape the witch's body while contained inside the Devil's Trap, so he had two choices: carve the binding link into the demon's skin, or kill the witch while the demon rode her. One way would be quicker, and more humane.

And a hell of a lot easier.

Setting the Molotov down, he took a breath, burying every flinch of pain, every groan of weariness, down to his gut where it caught fire, pushing him forward. He shoved the shotgun back into its make-shift holster, the fan belts pulling on his sore shoulders, and pulled his own dagger out, striding toward the demon, his eyes fixed, his lips thin.

The demon dropped into a crouch, ready to take him on, a cocky, confident grin plainly showing it knew it was the stronger of the two. Dean raised the knife and took a decisive step forward when suddenly the demon straightened, arms shaking. Dean pulled up short, watching, confused as the hand gripping the dagger turned away from him and faced inwards, toward the witch's vulnerable mid-section.

"What—wait, what…?" The demon stammered, staring from the arm it no longer controlled to Dean's equally shocked face.

Dean took a breath, moving inside the Devil's Trap with the witch. The demon took a step back, trying to get away but unable to. It looked up at him and the body it possessed trembled visibly.

As Dean watched, the onyx blankness cleared from the witch's eyes, exposing her own dark brown, desperate eyes.

"Do…it…," the witch pleaded, trying to maintain control. "Now…!"

Dean felt himself resisting, felt his heart scream, but her voice shoved into his mind, pressing against the edges there with two words: _end this_. And for a moment, he was blind, eyes wide open, darkness wrapped around his vision. Slicing through the dark one image became vividly clear: the witch holding something black and vile, putrid limbs thrashing against her grip.

His vision cleared suddenly and Dean gasped, bile climbing his throat. He forced himself to step forward, grabbing the witch in a strange, awkward embrace, the force of his body shoving the knife into her mid-section. The demon overpowered the witch's control, growling and thrashing, forcing both of them to the ground. Dean knew he had only seconds before the demon escaped to rejoin the cloud, leaving the mortally wounded witch lying in his arms.

He took a quick breath, whispered a heartfelt, "I'm sorry," and shoved his knife into her chest, directly into her heart.

He felt her body go slack, felt the demon cloud around him scream in protest as they writhed around each other, swarming but not attacking. He was safe in the Devil's Trap. But he couldn't stay; Sam was dying.

And once more, he'd killed to stop that from happening.

Releasing the witch's body, Dean crawled backwards to the edge of the Devil's Trap, and grabbed the neck of the Molotov bottle sitting just outside the salt ring. Swallowing the sudden nausea that rushed up at the knowledge of what he was about to do, Dean pulled his lighter from his jean's pocket, lit the rag at the end of the bottle, and threw it hard enough that the glass broke, the accelerant catching hold of the flame and crawling up the body of the witch.

The demons screamed and Dean heard his brother's voice echo the cry from inside the house, but he could do nothing except stare as the fire consumed the body. He didn't realize he was crawling away until his back hit the base of the stairs. The second bottle, unused and sitting outside the edge of the salt ring, toppled as the demons frothed and coiled around each other above the burning body, as if confused. Dully, Dean's gaze took in what looked like a retreat, the demons pulling up and away rather than using this moment to press the advantage and attack.

The accelerant leaked from the tipped bottle fanned the flame on the body and Dean could do nothing else but watched her burn. As he did, memories surfaced—blood coating his hands and arms to the point it looked as if he were wearing red gloves. He couldn't be sure if it was his blood or theirs. He remembered blindly following instructions of where to cut to extract the loudest screams, to incite begging, and to end it.

He remembered the sick emptiness going away when Alistair praised his work. He remembered feeling almost a sense of…pride…for a job done well done.

And he remembered the fire. The burning of flesh, the smell of it.

Bile rose in his throat as accusations and absolution warred within him, offering him an out, trying to steady him and acknowledge what he'd survived—_how_ he'd survived. His heart pounded with the horrific weight of guilt, his breath shuddering in and out of his weary lungs as the memories and images assaulted him.

He wanted them to stop, _needed_ to escape the memories. But he couldn't pull himself free, couldn't recall song lyrics to block them out, couldn't retrieve the faces of his family. He couldn't remember being rescued; he couldn't remember Castiel pulling him free, saving him from the _true_ Hell. Not the pain and the rack and the endless torture, but turning into one of them. His soul black and bottomless, willing to do whatever they said, willing to do whatever he had to in order to make the pain stop, to keep it at bay.

But he _had been_ saved. He had been returned to life, to the job, to a purpose. He had been returned to Sam. He'd been returned because someone needed him.

Dean took a ragged breath and blinked as he realized he could feel the sun on his face. The demon cloud was no longer blocking it out, no longer twisting above him in a seething mass of fury. He looked around, trying to figure out their endgame, knowing they wouldn't just leave. But the body of the witch had nearly burned and the sun was turning the rusted shells of the salvage yard to burnished silver and gold.

He rolled over, the shotgun a heavy weight at his back, and pulled himself to his feet. He made his way into the house, staggering past the study, not looking at Sam, and grabbed a canister from the kitchen. He returned to the porch, eying the sky, watching the road, seeing nothing. He stumbled as he descended the steps, the space between the porch and the broken salt line seeming to stretch out as he approached the body.

Falling to his knees, Dean sensed his resistance level had reached its expiration. His body hummed with pain, his chest stinging with each breath, his leg burning, his head throbbing. With shaking hands, he reached toward the pile of ash that had been the witch—looking away from the still-burning body—and scooped some into the canister, then turned and tried to push himself to his feet.

It took three attempts before he was able to find his balance, lurching his way back to the house. His vision had started to gray-out at the edges, a tunnel of purpose leading him forward. He made his way to the study, his breath rasping in and out like a boxer who didn't know the match was over for him. Stepping over Sam's prone body, he found the Mason jar with the rest of the components for the ritual and tapped the ash inside.

As he watched, the concoction began to turn a strange, grayish hue in the jar. He slid down the desk, slumped in the center of Bobby's Devil's Trap next to Sam, the shotgun at his back clunking noisily against the wooden furniture.

"Sam," he called, his mouth dry, his throat raw. He needed Sam to be a willing part of this, needed to _not_ torture someone else. "Sammy, c'mon, man."

Sam lay on his side, his wounded arm draped over his chest, eyes closed, face slack. Dean pulled in a breath through his nose. He was fading quickly. He needed to do this before the poison making Sam's veins black ate his brother's will and turned him against both of them. Digging the lighter from his pocket once more, he pressed his lips flat.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered. "But…I think this is gonna hurt."

He swallowed convulsively, his breath shaking as he exhaled, and took hold of Sam's wounded arm.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hour Eight<strong>_

Sam looked wrecked.

His skin was clammy, the sweat making tracks on his lined face, soaking through his ruined T-shirt and turning his wounded arm slick. He turned restlessly at Dean's touch, not truly conscious, but at least somewhat aware. He was shivering, his lips shaking around his quick breathes, and Dean's gut ached at the site of the dark lines running along Sam's cheeks to bruise his mouth.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, resting his hand on his brother's chest as Sam's face turned toward him.

The room seemed to tilt and Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself present. Narrowing his fading vision on the bite marks, Dean poured the paste from the jar onto Sam's arm, then set the jar down to free up his hand. Gripping Sam's wrist, Dean spread the concoction over the puncture wounds, eyes on Sam's face as his brother's breathing became rapid.

The moment the wound was covered, Dean knew the demons had returned. He smelled the stench of sulfur, heard the groaning roar of their advance.

Bobby's house began to shake, the Earth around it rumbling with a vengeance of a hundred seething souls thirsty for vengeance or escape. The large picture window in the study cracked, but stayed intact, the salt line on the window in place. Dean shot a look over his shoulder as he heard the front door bang against the wall, the morning sun once more obliterated by an unnatural darkness.

Under Dean's fingers, Sam's arm began to tremble—at first just fine, almost imperceptible tremors, but then increasing in intensity until Dean was pulling the limb toward him to keep hold of it. Sam's neck arched; the tendons there tightening and bulging as he groaned, his teeth grinding.

"Easy," Dean soothed. "Easy, Sam, almost done, man. Hang in there."

The darkened veins on Sam's face and neck began to turn purple, his lips taking on a bluish tint.

"Breathe, Sam." Dean pressed his hand flat on Sam's shaking chest. "Sam. SAM! Hey, hey, you gotta keep breathing! Aw, _Jesus_, don't do this to me…."

The demons roared around them, slipping and seething into the house, unable to reach them over the salt line, but desperate enough to keep trying. Terrified that he was about to send his brother right over the edge, Dean braced himself and flicked his lighter to life.

"_Please_ let this work."

He touched the flame to the paste, surprised when it caught immediately, the fire burning purple, but with no heat. Sam went suddenly, completely still and Dean took a quick breath. When Sam's eyes flashed open, they were filled with utter terror, searching frantically around him.

"Sam! Sammy, I'm here. Hey, _hey_! I'm here. I'm here, man." He had to yell to hear his own voice over the sound of the seething cloud.

Sam was panting, the trembling of his body slowing, but the terror ever-present. He reached with a clumsy hand to find Dean's shoulder, gripping his filthy T-shirt with fumbling fingers.

"'m burnin'!" he slurred. "Dean! 'm burnin'!"

"You're not," Dean promised, glancing down to Sam's arm and seeing that the cool purple flame was actually starting to die out as the wounds drew the paste into Sam's skin. "You're _not_, I swear. You're gonna be okay, Sam. Hey, hey, look at me! Look at my eyes, man."

Sam's frantic eyes found his and Dean stared at him, hard, brows pulled close, pinching the wounds on his face. He curled his fist in Sam's T-shirt, holding his brother's arm down and away from him.

"You stay lookin' at me, got it? You _got that_?"

Sam nodded, breath hammering in and out of him until Dean was afraid he'd hyperventilate before the ritual could work. Outside, a storm was raging. Inside, the darkness grew as the demons seemed to expand, spread through the house, blowing out every light, filling the empty spaces until only the study remained open.

The brothers held eye contact as the paste continued to counteract the Neresit poison, the darkened veins fading, retreating from Sam's face, returning his features to a paler version of normal. As Dean watched, Sam's eyes cleared of pain, though fear remained. His lips stopped shivering, but his grip on Dean's shoulder was steady.

"That's it, brother," Dean encouraged, making sure Sam heard him over the cacophony. "You're doing great—"

The fire on Sam's arm flared to life in one unexpected last gasp of brilliance, then died completely as Sam cried out, back arching, body bucking. Dean held on, moving his hand from Sam's shirt to the back of his brother's neck, pulling him upright, pulling him close. Sam shook, rocking into Dean, crashing against open wounds, bruises, torn and pulled muscles.

But Dean held on.

He had no strength for words, nothing left for reassurance. He simply held on.

After what felt like hours, he could feel Sam breathing and realized that his own gasps for air matched his brother's in speed. As the dark cloud pressed close around the room, a reminder that Hell waited at their threshold, the brothers pulled apart slowly. Sweat ran down Sam's face, sticking his hair to his scalp, but his skin was clear of the black markings. He stared at Dean with shock, his eyes once more his own, clear, bright, and worried.

Dean looked down at Sam's arm, dizzy with relief at seeing the raw puncture wounds having faded to a pink crescent scars.

"Dean?" Sam's voice cracked across his name. Sitting as close as they were, Dean could hear him without Sam having to yell.

"Y' okay?" Dean asked him, dismayed to hear his words slurring. He tried to swallow.

"Yeah...I, uh. I think so. I don't...I'm not...it doesn't hurt anymore," Sam said, looking baffled and relieved as he continued to stare at Dean.

"You…. D'ya still hear 'em? The demons?" Dean tapped Sam's head to show he didn't mean the roar outside.

Sam didn't pull his eyes from Dean's face as he shook his head. "How—?"

"I can't…it's—" Dean couldn't find the words. The rush of the last several hours was beginning to crash down upon him and Sam was blurring before his eyes.

"Dean, man…," Sam breathed, closing his mouth and pulling in a breath, his eyes darting in thought, remembering. "I was burning. You…did you set me on fire?"

"Had to," Dean tried, closing his eyes in an attempt to balance. "It was…it was the only way." He looked back at Sam. "I _had_ to," he repeated, his voice loud and hard, needing Sam to hear him, thinking about more than the fire that burned the poison from Sam's body.

But Sam had moved past the fire. He was staring at Dean with open concern. "What happened to you?"

"Saved yer ass," Dean replied, feeling an almost drunken grin tugging weakly at his lips. "Tol' ya…'d fix it." He blinked wide, trying to bring his focus back, trying to bring _himself_ back.

He could feel the demons pressing close, ready to tear them apart, devour them, the moment they crossed the salt line. He couldn't afford to fade. It wasn't over, not yet. But as he sat huddled close to his brother in the center of the Devil's Trap, Sam's bright, pain-free eyes taking him in, the demons didn't matter.

He'd done his job. He'd kept his promise. They hadn't got him.

"They didn't get you," he told Sam, tightening his grip on the back of his brother's neck, bringing Sam closer, rubbing the base of Sam's skull affectionately. "Told the bastards."

Sam reached up, his hand ghosting Dean's battered face. "Jesus, Dean, you look like hell…. What _happened_ to you?" He repeated.

Dean couldn't answer. He just wanted to sit, breathe in the sweaty scent that was his brother—his brother _alive_. He didn't want to think, to fight, to do anything but sit and breathe, Sam next to him.

The split in the picture window suddenly widened, spreading across the whole pane with a deafening _crack_. Dean jerked his head up, as if coming suddenly and viciously awake. The weak weightlessness he felt coming down from the adrenaline high was quickly replaced by a driving need to survive. Sam pulled free of his grasp as he looked out and around, seeing for the first time the cloud of demons filling Bobby's house.

"Holy shit," he said.

"That's putting it mildly," Dean agreed, tried to get up, then gasped as a sudden stab a pain shot through his wounded leg.

Sam shot a look back at him. "You okay?"

"Define…okay," Dean winced, his body rebelling his need to stay conscious. "I'm still breathing...but if we can't get rid of these guys," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "that's not going to be the case for long."

Sam's eyes darted in thought, his tongue running restlessly along his bottom lip. Dean waited, watching.

"I think I have an idea…," Sam said finally. "But…I'm gonna need your help."

Dean grinned at Sam, the smile filling him up. "Damn, it's good to have you back."

"Say that after we exterminate these bastards," Sam told him, using Bobby's desk to gain his feet. He teetered on the edge of balance a moment, rubbing at his eyes. "Whoa."

"Take it easy," Dean admonished from the floor. "You've…kinda had a busy night."

Sam looked down at him. "Says the pot." He reached down and gripped Dean's wrist, tugging him upright.

Dean stood with a low groan, but was unable to put any weight on his wounded leg, the cuts there lacing fire up through his hips and torso, making him sway. Sam caught him, wrapping his arm across Dean's back and supporting him. Leaning on each other, they raised their eyes to the frothing black cloud.

"That's a lot of demons," Sam said, yelling over the storm surge of noise.

"Yep." Dean looked at his brother, having to tilt his head up to do so, they stood so close. "What do you wanna do?"

Sam looked back at the cloud turning Bobby's study into an island inside his home. His eyes narrowed and his expression became hard as he answered. "Kill 'em all."

"I can get on board with that," Dean muttered, unable to pull too far away from his brother. He knew he wasn't going to be able to stand on his own very long. "What's the plan?"

Sam swallowed. "Obviously, it's gonna take more than just the exorcisms we've said before." Dean watched as Sam's eyes skimmed the book-laden shelves surrounding them. "I read this book a couple weeks back where you add sigil, and some other stuff that pulls the demons—"

"Sam. Show. Don't tell," Dean ordered, gripping his brother's shirt for balance.

"Right, okay." Sam helped Dean lean back against Bobby's desk. He rubbed his head as he moved to the shelves on the far wall. "Feel hung-over," he called over the noise. "Headache from Hell, man."

Dean knew his brother was trying to keep him talking, keep him engaged. He recognized Sam's tactics from years of fighting alongside him, of knowing his partner. Keeping his eyes on his brother's movement, he played the game, though the effort of talking tore at his aching chest.

"Yeah, well," he shouted. "I _told_ you to stay in the other wing."

Sam grabbed a heavy book from the shelf—he seemed to know exactly what he was looking for—and dropped in on the desk next to Dean, leafing through the pages.

"Couldn't let you have all the fun," he countered. "You know I love dogs."

Dean chuckled, pressing the flat of his hand against the stinging scrape on his chest. "Think I just became a cat person."

Sam glanced up at him as he moved to the broken china cabinet and grabbed two jars and an empty bowl. "You do tend to land on all fours."

The demons were growing impatient, it seemed. Dean gasped as he felt a sudden pressure change, his ears popping as the cloud roared around them.

"Need…chalk…or a marker or something," Sam shouted.

"Duffel," Dean called back, remembering the grease pencil he'd used to mark the Nova just last night.

He watched as Sam bent down and dug through the duffel laying half under the resituated couch. Worry pulled Dean's brows close as Sam wavered a bit, using the couch for support.

"Sammy?"

"I'm good," Sam said. "Just…dizzy."

"Want me to—"

Sam jerked a dark look in his direction. "You stay there," he ordered. Dean blinked, then watched Sam's expression soften as he continued, "I need you to stay upright a little longer, man. Just…just stay there."

Dean knew he had to look rough. He _felt_ rough. But something in Sam's expression had him wondering just how bad off he was. He glanced down at his body and saw his ripped T-shirt, bloody chest, filthy jeans torn open with seeping wounds visible on his leg, a pink shop towel stained with blood on his arm.

_No wonder Sam looks freaked out._

Turning his attention back to his brother, he watched as Sam set the book next to him and drew an unfamiliar sigil in the center of the room, beneath the Devil's Trap. Putting the empty bowl in the middle, he poured something from one jar and pinched something from another.

"Need a knife, Dean," he yelled, looking over his shoulder.

"A what?"

"Knife!" Sam shouted back. "Need to use blood."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, man," he called. "The witch has 'em." In fact, he could still see them in his mind's eye, protruding from her chest.

"Dammit!" Sam cursed, looking around the room.

Dean pushed away from the desk, widening his stance to find his balance. He stepped forward until he stood in the center of the sigil, directly above the bowl.

"How much?"

Sam was eying the cracked window. Dean knew where his mind was going.

"Sam!" he barked. "How much blood?"

"Three drops, but—"

Dean untied the shop towel from his arm and held it over the bowl. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the cut until blood pooled, then ran from his arm to drip into the bowl. When he'd seen three drops fall, Dean pulled his arm back and wrapped the towel back around the cut, tying it quickly.

Sam was gaping at him. "What. The hell?"

Dean found that he was struggling to steady his breath, his vision slipping from gray to white before clearing once more. He wanted to hold onto something, but there was nothing nearby.

"Let's just say," he panted, staggering a bit, "we redefined _blood brothers_ tonight."

Sam swallowed, his eyes wide and more than a little scared. "Okay, um," he said, looking back at the dark cloud surrounding them. "This is gotta be done fast. The second I start the rite, you have to break the salt line—"

"What? And let them in here?" Dean stared dumbfounded at his brother.

"Listen, Dean," Sam snapped, his face tense. "This is going to open a portal that…basically sucks them out of here."

"To _where_?"

"Does it matter?"

Dean thought about that a second. "You sure this is gonna work?"

"As well as any of our plans ever do," Sam said with a tiny shrug.

"Okay, so, how do you keep them from beating the hell out of you?"

Sam looked at the cloud. "If I'm right, they won't have time."

"Hell with that," Dean muttered, though he saw Sam heard him over the roar.

_You look them in the eye._

He reached back and pulled the shotgun free from its holster, breaking the barrels across his arm. He fished a shell from his jean's pocket and slipped it into the empty barrel, before snapping it closed and looking back at Sam.

_You don't flinch, you don't fail. _

"They're not touching you," he declared.

Sam's eyebrows bounced. "Dude. You're like…Ripley."

Dean scowled at him. "Ripley's a chick," he protested, moving closer to the threshold and the demon cloud, the smell of sulfur suddenly reaching a potent enough level he wanted to gag. "I'm like John McClain."

He didn't have to look to see Sam's grin. The witch had been wrong. There _were_ people worthy of sacrifice. One of them was sitting right behind him.

"You ready, man?" Sam shouted.

"Yippe-ky-yay, motherfucker!" Dean yelled at the cloud, shotgun up.

Sam began screaming out the rite, his voice crackling with effort. Dean kicked the salt line free, firing the first barrel into the cloud as he did so. The howl of the demons was so loud it was quiet. He saw the flurry of books flying from shelves, the wild twist of Sam's hair and clothes, the rush of demonic smoke as it broke the barrier and rushed his brother.

Dean fired again and felt the scream of the demons shake through him, saw it shake through Sam, but his brother never faltered. Sam stayed in the center of the sigil, his mouth moving as he shouted the rite, not blinking as the demons seemed to dive into the bowl in front of him, sucked there against their will by the power of the words Sam spoke.

As Dean watched, Bobby's house cleared, demons retreating, escaping, or sucked into the void Sam was creating. The pressure of their presence increased for a moment before suddenly disappearing, evaporating into the light that spilled into the room in their wake. It felt like hours, but Dean knew only seconds had passed when the wind stilled, the deafening quiet hissed back to reality and Sam's shouting tapered off.

They stared at each other, breathing hard, almost unable to believe they were still in one piece. Dean watched Sam's throat work as he swallowed, noticing even the minute motions of his brother as he reacted to the fact that they were still there. Still alive. Sam pushed to a shaking stance, his eyes still on Dean. Weakly, a laugh bubbled from inside of him.

"Guess it worked," Sam said, his voice rough from screaming.

"What in the holy _hell_ is going _on_ here?"

The voice was filled with baffled fury, but it was one of the sweetest sounds Dean had heard in hours. He turned, his body wavering, the empty shotgun falling from his loose grip, and tried to smile.

"Hey, Bobby," he greeted. "Sorry 'bout the house."

Bobby stared at him, angry, but then Dean saw something shift in his expression. Shock and worry swam across his eyes as he stepped forward. Dean meant to reach out. He fully intended to greet his friend and mentor with a grateful hug and a pound on the back.

Instead, his knees buckled and he felt himself going down, Bobby's strong arms catching him and holding him close, a whisper of, "I gotcha, kid. I gotcha," slipping across his weary ears.

* * *

><p><strong>Concluded in Part Four…Recovery.<strong>

**a/n: **Thank you for reading. Come back for the end and a link to an original story soundtrack fanmix by secretlytodream.

**Playlist:**

All My Life by Foo Fighters


	4. The Recovery

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** see Part 1

**Warnings:** There is mention of torture (from Dean's tour in Hell) in this fic.

**a/n: **Those of you who are waiting until it's finished...here you go. Thank you for reading, and thank you to those of you who gift me with your comments and feedback. Your words encourage me to continue when life and doubt pulls me down. I will continue to reply to your reviews until I hit every last one, so please let me know what you think.

To answer some questions really quickly – this story was completed before Season 7 began, and I'm thrilled that the theme of the story has meshed so well with what we've been enjoying in the show thus far! I set it in Season 5, though, to showcase Dean's trauma from Hell, before Sam had his own. Due to that, one _tiny_ aspect of this chapter is a bit AU. *smiles*

Lastly, **MD**, thank you for requesting a story from me. I know I took your simple request and turned it on it's ear, but I truly I hope it works for you!

* * *

><p><em>"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings; words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out."<em>

_- Stephen King, via Gordon LeChance, __The Body_

**Part Four: Recovery**

_**Bobby's House**_

He could feel the soft flannel of Bobby's shirt against his face.

Hovering in the gray world between oblivion and awareness, Dean simply breathed. He could smell the familiar, comforting scents of detergent, outdoors, and sweat as strong arms held him close, but he couldn't—didn't want to—move.

His body was done. Pushed past all limits of reason and reserves. His spirit was wounded, memories saturated in guilt having soaked through to bruise his soul.

He lay, without fight, and breathed.

"Jesus Christ..." Bobby's voice was close and yet far away at the same time. As if Dean were listening in on a tapped phone line. "Sam? What happened?"

Dean could hear tears in Sam's voice. It was almost enough to bring him around, almost enough to force him to climb the ladder to awareness and open his eyes.

Almost.

"Still fuzzy, but…. He saved me, Bobby. Somehow."

"Did you…Sam, the body out front—"

"—witch? I think? I can't remember, it's all…."

"…_told_ him, dammit…."

For several moments, Dean retreated. He didn't want to hear anymore. Didn't want to know. He hid. His mind filling with songs and lyrics so vivid he almost saw the black crest of notes on sheet music, floating through the gray nothing, soothing him with the comforting chords of electric guitars and the rhythmic slam of drums.

And then he was being lifted. He felt his head drop back, hanging loosely from slack neck muscles over the edge of someone's arm, felt arms cradle his legs, felt himself being carried. It was a strange, weightless sensation. He always had to be in charge, in control—of himself if nothing else.

But he had no fight left. No resistance.

Let them carry him.

"…a mess, Dean."

The sound of his name had him turning his head instinctively toward the voice, listening in spite of himself.

"Shouldn't we get him to a hospital?"

"Yeah. We should. But we ain't."

"What? How come?"

"'cause all the ones close would pretty much have me arrested on sight and he needs help _now_."

The voices faded, moving away from him, and Dean slipped a bit further into the gray, a little darker, a little deeper. Something in the back of his mind, in a place he knew he should listen to but was purposefully ignoring, told him not to go too deep. That if he went too deep, he might not come back out.

He didn't know if he _wanted_ to come back out. If he deserved to. So many awful things…he'd done _so many_ awful things. Things he'd killed others for doing.

Things that made him a monster.

He'd almost been able to forget. Almost been able to pretend they hadn't really happened to him, they were just the words of some lore he'd read about once.

Almost.

Hands were on him, turning him, pulling at him. Clothes, he realized. They were cutting off his clothes, stripping him down, laying him bare, vulnerable. All of his scars, all of his wounds, all of his sins, exposed.

"Need to get these off of him."

"God, look at…. They worked him over good."

"Understatement of the century."

"Why didn't he bandage them up better?"

"'cause he was trying to save your scrawny hide, ya idjit."

"Where were you?"

"On my way back, that's where. I told him, dammit. I _told him_ to wait for me!"

"And you really thought he'd listen to you?"

"No. But I hoped."

The words were beginning blend until he couldn't tell Sam from Bobby. It didn't matter anyway. None of it did. He wanted the darkness. He belonged there.

_You look them in the eye. _

He turned his head away from the voice. The _memory_ of the voice. Memory powerful enough to conjure his dead parents.

The goddamn memory that never forgot anything.

"Think he's coming around."

"Dean?"

Hands at his face. Coolness along his skin, flashing pain to the surface bright enough that he gasped. He didn't want the pain. He was tired of pain.

"Hey, man. C'mon, that's it. Open your eyes."

He had to. It was _Sam_.

His vision blurred as he blinked up at his brother's worried face. Sam smiled, but Dean saw pain in his eyes. It was so hard to remember why. And he didn't want to try. If he remembered why, then he'd remember everything else. And he didn't want to remember it anymore.

His eyes were heavy. Too heavy. With Sam staring down on him, he let them fall closed, eliciting an immediate reaction of gripping hands, fingers tapping on his cheeks, a gasping cry of, "Dean! Hey, no, no, hey. _Please_, Dean. Just—"

He pulled away, his mind falling back, sinking into shadows. He didn't have enough strength to—

"AH!"

The cry exploded from him unexpected and unbidden, the pain in his body—his leg, he realized, it was his leg—so intense it jerked him from the peaceful gray.

He opened his eyes, searching wildly for the danger, the source of the pain, the reason his leg was on fire. Hands held him, pushing him down as he fought to sit up, fought to get free. They were getting him back. Retaliating for the pain he'd caused. They were going to burn him alive.

"Arg," he groaned, unable to articulate clearly through the haze.

"Easy, kid, take it easy. Sam, hold him, dammit!"

"I'm trying, Bobby! He's fighting me—give him something else!"

"I can't give him anything else—not yet."

The words filtered through his confusion. They _weren't_ burning him. They weren't stringing him on the rack, shoving the hooks through his skin. They weren't torturing him. They were trying to heal him.

And it hurt like hell.

"Gah, _stop_…," he breathed, a pathetic whimper in his voice. "Leave it."

"Shut up, man." Sam's voice. Angry. Tearful.

Sam was holding him, Dean realized. He was leaning back against his brother's chest, Sam's strong arms wrapped around him. His hands…he was clutching at Sam, holding himself steady against the muscle of Sam's arms. He blinked wide, trying to clear his vision and saw Bobby crouched next to his bare leg, cleaning the skin, dabbing at the wounds. He didn't want to watch, didn't want to know.

"Your leg's a mess, kid," Bobby told him gravely. "May need to bite the bullet. Get you to a hospital."

Dean swallowed. His mouth was so dry. He wanted to tell him to forget about it. If he was going to die, just let it happen. Sam was safe.

But Sam was also gripping him tight. Reminding him that there was more than just this.

More than just them.

_You don't flinch, you don't fail. _

"No," he whispered, hearing a rough voice, grinding gravel. "You do it."

Bobby looked at him, then above his head at Sam.

"Sam, need you to make a call for me."

Dean closed his eyes, riding out the hot wave of pain as Sam laid him back, his brother's cool hand lingering a moment on his face.

The gray wasn't calm and comforting now. It was filled with broken glass and barbed wire. He caught himself on it as he turned, twisting, trying to find a clear path.

He heard voices leading him on, teasing him with safety, but he couldn't understand them. He heard music, tried to find the words that had brought him comfort but the cadence was wrong. His memories teased him, poked at him with tiny needles of heat, bleeding him out from the center of his chest so that he struggled to breathe.

_And you fight back because you know, Son. You know you are right. _

The heat spiked, burning his eyes, his lips, his body. He knew he had a choice: fight or succumb. He heard whispers in his mind, memories of poisoned voices stringing him along with false hope and then branding him with the cold touch of dead fire. He heard the taunts, the sneers, the laughter…always the laughter.

He shouted—it was the only thing left to him. He was strapped down, helpless, trapped. All that was left were years of insults and curses, vile and nasty, worthy only for the demons that held him captive. He fought them—struggling against their touch, their grip, their lies.

"Easy, kid, no one's trying to hurt you…stop…stop _fighting_ us, Dean…."

No. No, that's what they _wanted_. For him to stop fighting.

"Dean, it's me, man. It's Sam! Hey…hey, man, it's okay…, _please_. Don't push me away, man."

He stopped struggling. He'd never heard Sam in Hell. In all that time, they'd talked _about _him, but he'd never heard him. Not this close. Not this real.

"Need to get some fluid into him…."

"He's burning up, Bobby."

"Gotta cool him down. Help me out here."

Someone was lifting him again.

He felt the world shift, knew something was different, couldn't slow things down enough to determine what. Then he heard Bobby's voice. Sam replying. And he was moving, slowly, across a room, his legs all-but dragging between them. He tried to help, disoriented and embarrassed that he wasn't moving under his own power.

"Easy, kid," Bobby was saying. "We gotcha. You don't have to fight this one."

"Hang onto me, Dean," Sam told him, and Dean obeyed. "It's okay…hey, hey! I'm not going to let go."

Dean blinked, looking around him through eyes that didn't feel like his. Nothing fit, even his skin was too small. Then the cool shock of water slipped around him, climbing his skin, soaking him and soothing him. Closing his eyes, he felt hands at his face, in his hair, gripping his arms, his shoulders.

"Just need to get him cooler," Bobby said, his voice rough. "We get him cooled down, we got a chance."

_A chance_…, Dean thought numbly. A chance is all he'd ever needed. As his body soaked up the cool water, he felt himself slide away, back and away until he felt nothing.

He'd lost all track of time. Just like before. A year had passed in a minute while a decade lasted a lifetime. He'd been there forty years. He was an old man now. His heart…his _soul_ was in its seventies and he was tired. He was so tired.

Words ebbed and flowed around him…some of them his own. He felt his lips moving of their own accord. An oddly familiar, detached feeling slipped through his body and once again he was staring down at himself, watching his nearly naked body twist and thrash as his family hovered over him—Sam gripping his hand until his knuckles were white, Bobby adjusting some plastic tubing hanging from the headboard.

Dizzily he tried to find his ground, tried to feel Sam's hand. He could see it holding his, could see Bobby tugging a blanket up to cover his bandaged body, could see the damp rag being wiped across his forehead….

But he couldn't _feel _any of it.

With a lead-heavy weight in his gut, he realized _this_ was his choice. To retreat, escape, let it all go and fade to black…or wake up. And fight. Fight for however long it takes.

"Dean, c'mon, man…." Sam voice broke, whisper-thin and fragile. "We got work to do. Both of us. Just…hang in there. Hang in there with me."

He watched himself take a breath and felt himself fall and for one disorienting, nauseating moment he hovered as he heard Sam call out to Bobby, his voice panicked and Bobby reply with the curt gruffness of worry.

Blinking in burning-eyed blurriness, he saw his brother peering over him, shadows shifting, covering Sam's face, obscuring his expression. Dean forced the word up, trying for the strength for something…just _one thing_ that would ease the pain he felt surround them all.

"Okay," he breathed, then he relaxed, comforted that he'd agreed with whatever Sam had been asking of him.

He tried to turn away into the black, keep the pain shoved low where it wouldn't drown him. But something was tugging at him, making him want to curl inward, retreat. And then there was a voice. Not Sam…but someone close. Someone he'd listened for, reached out to. Someone he'd needed, who'd always reached back.

"Shoulda been here," the voice was saying, the tone heavy with regret and emotion. "Shouldn't've had to be you."

Dean blinked, his eyes barely slits, too heavy to open fully. He could see the bowed figure of someone sitting on the edge of the bed, felt the tug of a rough touch at his leg as the person moved gingerly, wrapping his wound.

"Why didn't you wait for me?"

_Bobby. _

Dean swallowed, letting his eyes slip closed, instinct prodding him to speak up, to reassure his friend that it was going to be okay. But he couldn't find the strength to speak. His eyes would no longer open. And his hands were weighted with weariness.

"Rufus told me," Bobby's voice was strangely quiet, as if someone was sick and shouldn't be disturbed. Was Sam sick? He had a sudden image of Sam, helpless, fevered, looking to him for help. "He told me that witch was dangerous. And he _sounded_ scared, too, when I told him where you boys were. Rufus scared…well. It don't happen. Not often anyway."

Dean listened to the familiar bristle of Bobby's voice, trying to make sense of the words, trying to decide if Sam was sick…if he should open his eyes.

"But…_I_ was damn scared," Bobby confessed, his voice thick, as if it was a struggle to push the words free. "Scared of what you'd do to save your brother. Already lived through you dying once…. Not sure I could handle that again." Bobby sighed and Dean felt the bed shift, sensing that Bobby was standing, feeling his friend staring down on him. "Knew it wasn't easy for your Daddy…raising you boys in this shithole of a world, knowing what we know."

Dean started to turn, needing to say something, make sure Sam wasn't sick. He couldn't get that image out of his head. And Bobby sounded...worried. But the moment he shifted, the fever-deep ache in his bones flared to life and he sucked air, going still. He felt a cool hand, rough with calluses, rest lightly on his cheek, then fall away.

"Took me too long to see _why_ it was so hard," Bobby said, his voice tight. "You're a good man, Dean. You're better than you know. Better than your Daddy. Damn sight better'n me."

Dean heard the floor creak, and blinked slightly once more, his lashes shadowing the fading image of his friend.

"You're gonna be okay. 'Cause I can't figure on how this world would work otherwise."

He wanted to call out, but the pain dragged him low until the dark crease of nothing replaced Bobby's words. Then, as if the universe decided he'd paid his dues, the heat began to retreat, the pain quieting to a dull roar in the background of his mind.

The voices were gone—even the memory of John's voice. The gray was tentative. The peace conditional.

Dean opened his eyes. He hadn't meant to. But he was suddenly awake and staring at his brother. Sam sat on a chair next to the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes serious in the dim light. He was staring back at Dean as if watching for something, some sign.

Silently, they studied each other, mentally circling one another as if waiting to see who would be the first to give in. Lost in the confusion and haze of lingering pain, Dean didn't even know what day it was, and the last image he could recall of Sam, his brother had been in pain.

"Y'okay?" he asked, lips barely moving, voice nothing more than a rasp.

Sam's lips thinned in a frown that told Dean more than he wanted to know. His eyes swam with unshed tears and Dean felt there were words said that he'd missed. Something in Sam's expression told him there might have been a lot he'd missed. Reaching out, Sam adjusted the edge of a sheet that covered Dean from mid-chest down, resting his hand on Dean's arm, squeezing gently.

"Yeah. I'm okay."

Dean watched him, his mind purposefully blank, not wanting to remember. Not wanting to know. And then Sam sighed, sitting back, his eyes on Dean, but not keeping him. And after awhile, Dean slept. True sleep.

No gray, no black, no dead relatives, no memories of Hell. But he knew they were there. They lingered on the edge and he knew they'd wait until he'd turned his back before attacking.

"He's been sleeping a long time."

Sam's voice was a surprise.

Dean couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd heard it. He hovered on the cusp of awareness, not ready to face the consequences of his actions. He wasn't ready to confess….

He didn't want Sam to know it all. Not yet. Not…ever.

"_You_ should sleep more." Bobby sounded different. Tired, rough, as if he'd been through something particularly harrowing. Dean tried to remember…was somebody hurt? "You went through hell, Sam."

"Not really. Not like Dean."

"Son…that's different."

"Bobby." The catch in Sam's voice had Dean's worry creeping higher. Maybe he should open his eyes. "D'you hear what he's been saying? You hear what…what he…what they made him do?"

"Yeah, I heard."

Dean felt his heart fall as memory grabbed him. Slipping off the edge of control, it plummeted backwards as he listened to his brother and his friend. They knew. Somehow, he'd told them. He hadn't meant to, but he'd told them.

"Why didn't he say anything? You know…before?"

"How do you say something like that, Sam?"

"You just…you just _say _it."

Dean felt his heart flip, trying to climb his throat, poised at the base of his tongue, pushing tears of confession and weariness to the backs of his eyes.

"How do you…put _Hell_ into words?"

He couldn't. He never could. He rode out the nightmares and drowned the memories with liquor. He swallowed pills to keep the pain at bay. He kept moving and he did the job. He didn't say anything because nothing made it better. Nobody could help him because nobody knew.

Nobody knew his Hell.

And he wanted to keep it that way. If there was _anything_ left to fight for, it was that. Sam could never know. Never know.

"He looks so tired, Bobby."

"He's beat to hell, Sam. There's a reason for that."

"I should have known…I saw all the nightmares…the drinking. I mean…he _tried_ to tell me. In a way. But…I didn't get it."

"You're his brother, kid. Not his conscience."

"He doesn't want to wake up."

_You know you will win. _

"He will."

"He doesn't want to fight anymore."

_When it's all done, you will win._

"He will."

When Dean opened his eyes, he was surprised to feel the heat of sun once more. He was facing a wall, his body sweat-covered and gritty, his muscles stiff from lying still for a long period of time. Rolling to his back, he shifted carefully on the pillow, his head pounding with a morning-after ache, his mouth dry and sticky.

Blinking to clear his vision, he stared in surprise when he realized it wasn't Sam sitting next to his bed.

It was Castiel.

"You're alive," he said, his voice a hoarse crack of sound. Relief warred with surprise and he felt both shift through him like liquid gold.

"As are you," Castiel replied. His face was impassive, but Dean picked up a distinct look of happiness in the angel's guileless blue eyes. "I have water."

Dean took the glass, though it trembled in his shaking grip, and tried to lift his head enough to sip it. Water slipped out of the sides of his mouth and down his cheek. He tried to push himself higher in the bed, his stomach muscles whimpering. Before he got very far, Castiel's hand was at his neck, supporting his head, helping him sip the water.

"Thanks," Dean breathed as Castiel eased him back down.

"You saved your brother," Castiel said, standing now, staring down at him.

"How'd you get away?" Dean asked, reaching up to rub at the butterfly bandage across his nose. The tape was itching.

Castiel looked out through the window over Dean's head, a tiny smile on his lips. "I am not as limited as I thought."

"You saved our asses, man," Dean said, gratitude turning his voice soft.

Castiel looked down, but not directly at Dean. "It was a mistake to send you in after the beast."

"Hey, I knew what I was doing," Dean protested.

With a very human-like lift of his eyebrow, Castiel's eyes raked Dean's battered form. "Clearly."

"Cas, shit like this…," he rolled his head to the side, looking away from his friend, "it can happen anytime. Even without…y'know…mobs of demon hit men."

Castiel was quiet.

"I'm just saying," Dean lifted his eyes to regard his friend, "it wasn't your fault. It's a dangerous job."

"Dean," Castiel said, his tone that hesitant.

"I mean it, man," Dean insisted. "You can't always know how it's gonna go down."

Castiel nodded.

"Don't suppose you could…y'know…. _Zap._" Dean squinted up at him, his hand resting lightly on his sore chest. A bandage covered the abrasion he'd received courtesy of the demonic cloud tackle.

Castiel looked at him, confused. "_Zap_?" he repeated.

"Do your healing thing, man," Dean said, his voice tiring.

Castiel frowned, paused, then with a curious tilt of his head as if saying _let's see_, he reached out and laid his hand on Dean's forehead. The warmth of his friend's touch was soothing to the bandage–covered cut and for a moment Dean felt that warmth slide through his body until he imagined he was glowing from it.

But then Castiel pulled his hand away and Dean realized he still hurt. A lot.

"I am sorry," Castiel said, looking away, regret plain in his voice.

"Hey, it's okay, Cas," Dean said. "Like you said. Sam's okay. That's what matters."

"Your wounds are deep, Dean," Castiel told him, turning back to face him. "There are ones no one but me can see. Those…I wish I could heal."

Dean felt his eyes burn, knowing what his friend was talking about, wanting the same thing. "Hey, Cas?"

The angel tilted his head, waiting patiently.

Dean swallowed. This wasn't going to be easy. "When…you found me…y'know…. I mean, when you pulled me out…."

"Of the pit," Castiel concluded, having seen, Dean suspected, far more when he saw those invisible wounds than even Dean realized.

"Right," Dean licked his lips, looking down, unable to meet the angel's eyes. "What…uh…what was I doing? What was I…what was I like?"

"You don't remember?"

Dean shook his head, still not looking at him. Castiel was silent for a moment and if Dean didn't know better, he'd suspect the angel was choosing his words.

"You were surviving," Castiel said simply. "I sought your soul. I laid waste to Hell to find it. It…shone," he said, his face pulling into a frown of memory. "Against all of the others who were burning there, sent by their choices and deeds, yours shone. But…you were blood and pain."

Dean glanced up. "But…did you see…. Where you there when I—"

He couldn't finish. Couldn't bring himself to say it even now. _Tortured, killed, burned…. _

"You were never one of them, Dean," Castiel said, his voice quiet and serious, offering Dean absolution he didn't feel he deserved. "You broke, but you are not broken. And if I had been faster…." He looked down as Dean glanced up. "I wish now I could have spared you all of this."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "What could you do, right? We're both Destiny's bitches."

Castiel frowned, his eyes sliding to the window. "I'm not convinced," he said quietly. "Something you taught me is that…there is no fate. No destiny." He looked back at Dean, his eyes large and ancient. "There's only what you decide, and how you live with that decision."

Dean swallowed, prepared to counter Castiel's revelation with recent examples of Heavenly control over his and Sam's life. But Castiel wasn't finished.

"That is how humanity is saved."

"Cas, man, don't put that kind of faith in-in…," _me_, he wanted to say. He floundered, trying to find words in a mind heavy with latent pain and lingering weariness.

"Dean, you are the only human in centuries of observing your kind I was willing to go to Hell for."

Dean blinked, shocked into silence.

"There _are_ people worth that kind of love." Castiel's smile was brief, unexpected, and then he was gone.

Dean lay still, thinking and, for once, remembering without pain.

Time passed. Dean slept. Bobby woke him to eat or drink. Sam woke him to help him cross to the bathroom. He woke to let someone check his bandages; one of them was near to calm him when the nightmares came.

But mostly, Dean slept.

And then one day, a low, familiar rumble woke him.

It was a sound he'd know anywhere. When he opened his eyes, he was alone, sore, and he had to pee. Rolling gingerly to his elbow, he carefully pushed himself to a seated position, hanging his legs over the side of the bed. He'd completely lost track of time, but could see from the window in his room that it was late evening.

The sky was beginning to bleed colors against the horizon and the air had turned gold. Taking a breath and using the back of the chair still positioned at the side of his bed, Dean stood, his legs hollow and shaky. He was dressed only in boxers, a wide, white bandage around his thigh, forearm, and chest. He could feel butterfly bandages on his nose and forehead.

A small bandage was taped across the back of his hand and he looked around, puzzled, until he saw the empty IV bag and two syringes in the waste basket next to his bed. Shuffling forward, not bothering with clothes, he made his way to the bedroom doorway, leaning there for a moment, listening. Another rumble followed the sound of the Impala as a second car joined her in Bobby's lot.

A different rumble rolled through Dean's belly as he stood listening. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd eaten, but he was ready to fix that, and soon. Turning, he made his way to the bathroom adjacent to the room he'd been in, vague, half-formed memories of someone supporting him from bed to the bathroom a few times over slipping through his mind. He smiled with relief when he saw their duffel bags side by side on the floor of the bathroom. He relieved himself, then turned to face his reflection.

His eyes were bruised, smudges of purpled prints spreading from the cut across his nose to frame the delicate skin. The cut on his head—same spot he'd opened twice before—was sealed and bandaged. He looked thinner, his cheekbones stretching his skin tight, and his beard had grown in thicker than he'd ever allowed it to grow.

He eyed the shower, contemplating, but decided against it. He didn't want to have to remove the bandages on his leg, arm, and chest just yet. Turning the water in the sink on hot enough it steamed up the mirror, he grabbed a towel and soap and washed the sweat from his body. He wanted to shave, but his hand was trembling a bit too much.

He settled for trimming his beard close with the small scissors Sam had left sitting out next to the medical tape and extra gauze. The result was reddish-brown scruff framing his jaw and mouth that he could shave off later when he wasn't in danger of cutting his own throat in the process.

When he was done, he wiped the glass, his stomach muscles tightening as he looked to the side of his own reflection, unable to forget the flash of the witch in the mirror downstairs. Closing his eyes, he turned off the water, the words to _Lonely Is the Night_ inexplicably slipping through his memory.

Grabbing a pair of clean boxers, jeans, and a T-shirt, Dean dressed carefully, avoiding bandages, working around stiff muscles, and uttering low groans of frustration. When he was done, he had to sit on the closed toilet lid for a moment, gathering his strength.

The smell of frying bacon brought his head up and his stomach growled in response.

Making his way carefully down the stairs, Dean saw that the chaos that had torn apart Bobby's house had begun to be repaired. Holes along the hallway wall had been taped up, burned outlets removed, light bulbs replaced. Turning at the base of the stairs, he peered into the study and saw that all of the furniture had been returned to its usual place, the books stacked on the shelves, and Rufus was asleep on the couch beneath the boarded-up window, a bottle of Jack Daniels tipped over at the edge of his fingers.

Dean headed through the study to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway.

"Breakfast for dinner?" he asked, amused when Bobby didn't so much as flinch at the sound of his voice.

"You Winchester boys would come back from the dead for bacon," Bobby replied. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean. "How you feeling?"

"Hollow," Dean told him, easing down onto a chair. "How long?"

Bobby tossed a towel over his shoulder and grabbed a mug. Pouring coffee from the percolator into it, he handed it to Dean with a, "careful, hot," caution before turning back to the stove.

"Let's see…this makes five days now," Bobby told him.

"Damn," Dean remarked, sipping the coffee. "No wonder I'm starving."

"You were in and out of it—never wanted to eat anything, could barely get you to drink," Bobby told him. "Had Rufus bring some high-powered antibiotics and fluids."

"Where'd he get those?"

Bobby glanced back at him, pushing his ever-present hat to the crown of his forehead and scratched at his hairline. "You really want to know?"

Dean glanced down with a rueful grin. "No, guess not."

"Between them demons beatin' the hell outta you, and your head still messed up from the Neresit," Bobby told him, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Dean, "it's a wonder you aren't _still_ sleepin'."

"I was hungry," Dean shrugged.

Bobby turned his back to Dean. "Sam helped me stitch you up real good. Gonna have a few more scars, though. Couldn't be helped."

"I have a lot of scars," Dean said quietly.

He stared vacantly at the table, thinking about the half-memories, the words that had floated around him, the knowledge that he'd inadvertently exposed more of his battered soul than he'd ever meant to. It all felt like a dream. Like Heaven had felt like a dream.

But he knew both had happened.

"You got that stare," Bobby said, surprisingly close to him.

Dean jerked his eyes up as Bobby set a plate of bacon and toast in front of him.

"Stare?"

"Thousand-yard stare," Bobby told him, pointing at the plate. "Eat." He turned back and began mixing something in a bowl. "Seen it on buddies from 'Nam. Seen it on your Daddy." He glanced back at Dean to make sure he was doing as he was told. Dean put a second piece of bacon in his mouth. "You can't get lost out there."

Dean glanced down. "I know," he replied. "'s…just hard sometimes."

"Dean…," Bobby kept his back to him, his arm moving slowly as he stirred whatever was in the bowl. "About the witch." He lifted his head, still not looking at Dean. "I oughta kick your ass for not listening to me, but—"

"You were right," Dean told him quietly. "Sorta."

Glancing over his shoulder, Bobby said, "What do you mean, _sorta_?"

Dean began to rub at a knot of wood on the table with the pad of his thumb. "She was using me to get out of that panic room. Woulda killed me if she could've…."

"But?"

Dean looked up and Bobby looked away. "She...helped me end it. I don't know why, but she…held the demon inside. Took control at the last minute. If she hadn't…," he shook his head, eyes shifting to nothing. "That was a helluva lot of demons, Bobby."

Bobby set down the bowl, bracing his hands on the counter, his head down. "I'm sorry."

Dean frowned. "What for?"

Bobby turned to look at him. "I'm sorry I wasn't home. I'm sorry the witch was. I'm sorry Sam got bit—"

"Bobby, none of that was your fault, man," Dean broke in.

Bobby took a breath. "I'm sorry you had to relive…all of that. I'm sorry _I _wasn't the one who got the demon ash."

Dean looked down, vividly remembering how he'd yelled at Bobby, how the _thought_ of what he'd have to do to save Sam sent him spiraling back to that moment—the moment he climbed off the rack.

"It's not your fault," Dean repeated. "I'm the one who…," he couldn't finish, glancing up at Bobby, his food forgotten. "It's not your fault."

Bobby worked his lips over his teeth, clearly struggling with what to say next. "Listen, Dean…I know you think it's all because of—"

"That bacon I smell?" Rufus' whiskey-roughened voice filtered in from the study.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, then back at Bobby with a small grin as Rufus untangled himself from the couch and sat up, looking around.

"Is it mornin' already?" he called out, blinking blearily at his friend.

"No, you idjit," Bobby groused. "And you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Dean while we went after the Impala."

Rufus looked at Dean, then back at Bobby. "Well, he's here, ain't he? Still in one piece and everything." He pushed himself to his feet. "I say job well done."

Dean chuckled, hungry once more. Finishing the bacon Bobby gave him before Rufus could steal it from his plate, Dean stood, refilling his coffee mug.

"Sam outside?" he asked.

Bobby nodded. "Cleaning out the Impala. Needed to keep busy, he said."

"How is he?"

Bobby lifted a shoulder. "Just tired, mostly. Once you pulled the poison from his system, the wounds healed up. Like nothing happened. He basically slept on the floor of your room until I made him get into a real bed."

"Those pancakes?" Dean eyed the bowl Bobby had set aside.

Bobby looked sheepish. "Well…when Sam said breakfast for dinner sounded like a good idea…."

Dean grinned, the bandages on his forehead stretching slightly. "It's perfect. I'll go get him."

"You sit," Rufus ordered with a dark scowl. "Don't need you keeling over. _I'll_ get him."

"Now, don't you go yellin' at that kid again, Rufus, I mean it," Bobby ordered, pointing a dripping whisk at his friend's back. "He's been through enough."

Rufus waved a dismissive hand as he turned to head down the hall. "You're just mad you didn't get to do it first," the man groused over his shoulder. "I know how you like to yell when you're worried."

Dean looked at Bobby as the screen door banged behind Rufus' retreating form. "He yelled at Sam?"

Bobby shook his head, turning back to his stove. "His damn fault you had to face the witch, you ask me. Plenty of angelica in the garage."

Dean remembered Rufus' note and the stockpile of herbs next to the car parts in Bobby's garage.

"Why did he yell at _Sam_, though?"

Bobby glanced at Dean with an expression that made Dean wonder how many times he'd asked that same question over the past five days. "How do you think that witch got out?"

Dean rubbed his face, recalling that night. The endless stretch of hours as he slowly lost Sam to the demon voices, to the witch's power, to the weakness, to the pain….

"You're awake!"

Sam's bright voice brought Dean's head up and he smiled in reaction to his brother's happy relief.

Dean nodded. "Bobby made bacon."

Sam was still looking at him as if he might blow away any second. "You were out of it for little awhile, man."

"Yeah, well." Dean offered his brother a small grin as he sat back down at the table. "Hope you've gotten the whole delusions of grandeur thing out of your system."

"Funny," Sam arched a brow, then sat down across from him, taking a plate of pancakes from Bobby. "Haven't had breakfast for dinner in…." He shrugged.

"Years," Dean agreed with a nostalgic smile. "Used to be Dad's specialty."

Rufus wandered back in, rinsing out a coffee mug and grabbing a spare, filling both and handing one to Bobby. Dean shared a quiet glance with his brother as they watched the two old friends move around the small kitchen with as much practiced ease as they'd seen them kill a demon.

When there was no one left in the world but the person by your side, balance is the only option.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked around a mouthful of pancakes.

"Tired," Dean answered truthfully. He didn't think he'd ever be able to sleep enough.

Rufus sighed, leaning against the counter. "Gotta tell ya," he said, noisily sipping his coffee, "I thought I had some nasty nightmares, but…," he shook his head, saluting Dean with the mug.

Dean frowned, looking over at Sam, questions in his eyes. Sam shook his head.

"Don't let him get to you, man," he said, shooting Rufus an irritated glance. "He's just pissed he didn't get to kill the witch."

"Damn right," Rufus grumbled, but Dean could tell this was old territory. There wasn't any heat in the man's words. "You know what I had to go through to catch that bitch? Get her into the panic room in the first place? And then you go and pick the lock."

Dean looked at his brother, slowing on his pancake intake. "You picked the lock?" he asked. "With what?"

Sam's lips quirked, his expression of suppressed humor reminding Dean so much of his dream of Mary, he had to press a hand against his bandaged chest.

"Dagger." Sam tried to look contrite, but a flash of a dimple showed Dean he'd already paid his dues and was looking for his brother's appreciation.

"Bullshit," Dean claimed, grinning in spite of himself.

"I'm serious. One minute I was…dreaming about fire, and the next…I had this little knife in my hand and the padlock was hanging open." Sam turned his hands palms up in a helpless shrug. "I don't know how I did it, but—"

"I do. She coached you." Dean slouched back in his chair, watching his brother.

"Yeah, probably," Sam said, looking down. He smiled softly, glancing over his shoulder. "Thought you were going to have an aneurism," he said to Rufus.

"Almost did," Rufus and Bobby answered together.

Bobby leaned against the counter on the opposite side of the sink, eating a folded pancake like a taco and sipping his coffee. "She worked you over good," he said to Sam.

"You were right, though," Dean said, staring at his empty plate, remembering her voice, the way the words echoed in his head as if she were somehow part of him. "She could only control one person at a time."

"Still not sure how you took her down," Rufus muttered. "I had this whole ritual with sigils and chanting…and here all you needed was a knife."

"Two knives," Bobby reminded him.

"Two knives," Rufus amended.

"And fire," Sam broke in.

"You people delight in showing me up, that it?" Rufus groused, grabbing the last of the bacon. "I practically kill myself stopping her—and let me tell you she was nobody's sweetheart. Killed three men in this town I was in. I find the binding spell, trap her, and I've done my homework, you hear? I knew what had to be done to get rid of her."

He was staring at Sam, a fierce frown puckering his brow. Dean watched with puzzlement as Sam slouched, hooking one arm over the back of his chair and glanced with a bemused smile at the older hunter.

"You hear me, Sam?" Rufus pointed at Sam.

"Yeah, man," Sam told him. "I get it. Thing is…I didn't kill her."

"Yeah, that's right," Rufus shifted his finger to Dean. "That's right you didn't, but _you—_"

"Rufus," Bobby warned. "Not now."

"No, Bobby," Dean lifted a hand, feeling his aching body pull at him, reminding him that he was older than he used to be. A lot older. "It's okay, man." He looked at Rufus. "I didn't want to kill her."

_There is only what you decide, and how you live with that decision._

He saw Sam swivel in his chair, looking at him, humor drained from his expression.

"I didn't," Dean insisted. "But," he looked down, rubbing the pad of his thumb on the knot in Bobby's table again, "I didn't have a lot of choices. Sam was gonna die…."

"I know about the Neresit ritual," Rufus said quietly. "I just don't see how you managed to get past a bunch of demons to trap one inside a witch. A very _powerful_ witch…," he shook his head, staring into his coffee mug. "You got some balls, kid."

Dean swallowed, too tired to take the bait. Too tired to play it up.

"She let me," he said quietly. Looking up, he let his eyes bounce from Rufus to Bobby, then land on Sam. "Maybe she wasn't totally full of shit. I don't know. But…she grabbed onto that bastard…held it inside…let me kill her." He looked down. "And if hadn't," he shrugged, then pushed his chair back, using the table as a brace to stand up. He straightened, then looked up at them. "If I hadn't…I'd have lost Sam."

He moved toward the doorway that led to the stairs, feeling their eyes on him, feeling their silence.

"Think I'm still kinda tired," he said over his shoulder. "Thanks for the food, Bobby."

The room was quiet as he walked away, returning to his bed and the darkness. As another day passed, Dean found that he had the strength to shower, the hot water stinging his open wounds. He emerged, pulling on his boxers, then sitting once more on the closed toilet.

His body was wrecked. And it was starting to piss him off.

"You in there?" Sam's voice came through the doorway.

"Yeah," Dean called back.

"You…uh," Sam cleared his throat. "You need anything?"

Half a dozen outraged replies danced on the tip of his tongue. _You forget the meaning of Personal Space? I'm not five! _But then he remembered the grip of his brother's hand, the fear in Sam's eyes, the plea to _hang in there_.

"I'm good."

"'K. Got fresh bandages out here."

Dean sighed. The stitches in his thigh looked like an army of ants crossing his leg. Same with his forearm. He may have been brought out of Hell without any scars, but he was making up for lost time.

Toweling his hair off, he opened the door, letting steam out and Sam in. Wordlessly, Sam handed him the bandages, watching without offering to help as Dean wrapped his leg, his arm, his chest. Dean turned on the water in the sink, watching the steam rise to cloud the mirror. He could see Sam's reflection as he paused in the doorway.

"What?" he asked.

"Just…making sure you don't need anything else."

Dean suppressed the need to roll his eyes. Sam had a hard time letting the caretaker role go once he was allowed to take it. Always had. He'd watch Dean like he was spun from blown glass for days after Dean knew he was ready to get back in the game. He didn't blame his brother for the concern, but it was hard to heal up when someone was always expecting him to collapse under the weight of a normal day.

"I'm good, Sam," he said firmly, making sure he met his brother's eyes in the mirror. "Really."

"'K…," Sam replied. "Just—"

"I'll let you know if I need anything," Dean replied, waiting until Sam stepped from the doorway before filling his hand with shaving cream and painting his face with it.

The scrape of the razor pulled at his skin, tugging the hair and cutting it free. The feel of the sharpened metal against his face, the sound of it dragging across the coarse hair, punched a cold knot into Dean's belly.

_How long…,_ he wondered. _How long until I can forget again? Until it's something that happened and not something that's happening?_

He tried to pull the razor down his cheek again, but his hand shook, making it nearly impossible to grip the blade. He stopped, took a breath, steadied his hand and tried again. The feel of the edge had his breath hitching, catching on the inside of his lungs, lost in its escape. A tiny drop of blood appeared, turning pink against the shaving cream.

Dean heard the angry sob more than felt it. He dropped the razor into the sink, the water cleaning the blade quickly, and gripped the edge of the counter, hanging his head, trying to calm his racing heart, the harsh hammer of his breath.

He _had to_ get control. _Had to_ stop this panic. He lifted his face, his image shadowed by the steamed-up mirror and took an unsteady breath.

"Watch out. You might get what you're after."

Dean frowned, looking over his shoulder.

"Cool babies…strange but not a stranger."

It was Sam singing. As well as Sam could sing anyway.

Dean leaned over, peeking through the still-opened doorway. He could see Sam's legs sticking out from the edge of the bed and realized his brother hadn't retreated far when he left. He was sitting just outside the door.

Singing.

Keeping the voices quiet.

Keeping the demons away.

"I'm an ordinary guy," Sam continued, his pitch wavering, his voice barely a whisper. "Burning down the house."

Dean looked down, his smile watery, secret. He picked up the razor, wiped the mirror clear with the flat of his hand, then dragged the blade down his cheek once more as he listened to his brother pitch the memories into shadow.

Rufus left the next day. Bobby informed them he was mostly just staying until Dean was on his feet. He hadn't known about the extra angelica and the fact that Dean had faced down a being that had nearly killed Rufus in the first place…well, that wasn't something easy for the hunter to live with.

Later that same day, Dean dressed in his long-sleeved Henley, and realized he was able to tie his boots for the first time without nearly passing out. He found Bobby in the study, repairing the glass from the picture window.

"Need help?"

"Nah," Bobby replied, stepping back and lifting his trucker hat to scratch at his forehead. "Just about done."

"Ah, then I timed it right," Dean grinned.

"Well, don't you look almost human," Bobby told him, giving him a once over.

"Thanks to you," Dean replied. Bobby shrugged. Dean put his hand on the older man's shoulder. "Mean that, man."

"Yeah, well," Bobby raised an eyebrow. "I do have a knack for getting your ass out of trouble."

Dean smiled, looking back at the window. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

They were silent a moment, then Dean took a breath, looked askance at his friend. "You're a good friend, Bobby."

Bobby's lips pressed outward, his eyes unwavering on the window.

"More than that, man," Dean amended, unconsciously mirroring Bobby's stance. "A helluva lot more. You're…our family."

Bobby cleared his throat, looking down. Dean sensed him shift his weight, one foot to the other.

"You boys…," he started, clearing his throat again, then looking back out through the window. Dean watched his expression, knowing what he wanted to say, knowing what was so much harder to vocalize when the person you needed to say it to was staring right back at you. "You're…," he narrowed his eyes and glanced up at Dean, "gonna turn me into an old man."

Dean huffed a brief laugh, a smile claiming his face. "If you're lucky."

"We don't gotta hug now or anything, do we?" Bobby asked.

"I'm good." Dean pressed his lips closed, holding up a hand. "Sam outside again?"

Bobby nodded. "Messin' around with the Impala. Think you might be rubbing off on him after all these years."

"Took long enough," Dean muttered good naturedly. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of beers, then continued outside.

Pushing the door open, he breathed in the crisp, demon-free air of the evening, and made his way down the steps. Heading toward the garage overhang where he saw Sam had parked the Impala, he stepped over what remained of the broken salt line, moving resolutely past where he knew the witch had died.

No evidence of her body remained. Bobby—or perhaps Rufus—had taken care of the rest of the ashes. But he remembered. He knew it was there.

Sam had the car radio on, Dean's Metallica _S&M_ tape rolling out through the speakers at a much softer volume than he'd ever listened to it.

"Hey," he called.

He heard a bump, crash, and curse, followed by the sight of Sam's form straightening up from beneath the workbench.

"Sorry," Dean said sincerely.

Sam rubbed the back of his head, watching Dean as he made his way around the end of the car.

"Hey," he returned Dean's greeting. "You look…better."

Dean half-grinned. "Aw, stop. You'll make me blush." He handed Sam one of the beers. "What are you doing out here?"

"Just…I don't know," Sam shrugged, tossing a wrench to the side and took the bottle. "Cleaning out the car. Restocking."

_Keep busy, keep moving_, Dean realized. His habits really had seeped into his brother, it seemed.

"I mean…I figured we could stay here. Rest up awhile, but…after that…." He looked over at Dean. "We still got work to do, right?"

Dean nodded, leaning a hip on the edge of his car. He rested his free hand on the back window, peering inside. If he closed his eyes, he could picture himself as a kid, lying across that seat, looking out at the ever-changing sky as their father drove them to another temporary home.

He could picture Sam playing with green Army men along the window edge and across the back of the seat. He could picture Anna stretched out beneath him on the seat before she sacrificed her human life to regain her angelic one. He could picture his father and brother, side by side in the front, as he lay bleeding in the back.

"…okay, man?"

"Huh?" Dean brought his head up.

"Maybe you should go back and lie down," Sam suggested. He was standing close. Dean hadn't seen him move. "You're still kinda pale."

"I'm okay," Dean said. "I'll turn in early," he amended.

"If you're sure," Sam said, boosting himself up on the trunk of the Impala, the large car sagging slightly with his weight.

Comfortable in his skin for the first time in days, Dean slouched against the side of the car, the low sun warming his face, glinting off the chrome bumper of the Impala. Sam turned sideways to look at him.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Sam told him quietly.

Dean waited, afraid of Sam's next words. Afraid to know what all he confessed.

"Those _weren't_ the best days of my life, Dean."

Frowning, Dean looked over at his brother. "What?"

"What you saw—what Zachariah showed us—in Heaven. They weren't the best days."

Dean rolled his bottom lip against his teeth, looking down. _You were played, Dean. Pure and simple. And so was Sam._

"I know," he said softly.

"I mean it. I mean, those days were good ones, but it was all out of context and—"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said, hearing the struggle in his brother's voice, wanting to offer him an escape path.

"I didn't know what it did to you," Sam pressed on. "When I was gone, I mean. I never stopped to think about it, I just…."

"Hey," Dean cut him off with a word. "It's _okay_, Sam."

"And I know…I know this whole thing…it's a mess. _We're_ a mess," Sam continued.

Dean waited for Sam to tell him that they had to keep believing, that they had to keep fighting. It was what Sam did: pushed him on when he was weak. Reminded him that he had something to fight for.

But Sam was quiet, his eyes down, Metallica playing in the background. Dean waited, watching his brother's face.

"Y'know," Sam began after a moment. "I really thought I was going to burn to death. I could see it. Like it had already happened."

"I know," Dean replied.

He was well past offering platitudes and epithets of comfort, well past reminding Sam it hadn't been real. It had been real enough for Sam. Real enough that he needed to find his own way to work through the memories.

"I could hear them. And I could hear her…."

"The witch, you mean?"

Sam nodded, then he lifted his eyes. "And I could hear you," he told Dean. "And, y'know, the funny thing? No matter how loud they were? You were _always_ louder." He shook his head. "I heard you no matter what."

Dean looked away.

_You gotta believe…in us._

_You aren't as empty as you believe yourself to be._

There were things he needed Sam to hear…not pleas, not confessions…but truth. The problem was…he didn't always know what the truth was, or what it would take from him to share it.

"Sam," he started. "There's stuff I haven't told you. But…not because I don't trust you." He dropped his gaze to the ground, at the dust gathered on his boots. "It's because…if I think about it too much…," he looked up, staring at nothing. "It'll end me."

Sam said nothing. Dean felt tears build in the back of his throat, burning his eyes.

"I'd do anything to keep you safe, Sam," Dean confessed around the choke of emotion.

"I know," Sam said quietly.

"But…," Dean continued, blinking to clear his vision, still looking at nothing. "The thing is, this whole…destiny thing? Us being vessels? It's..."

"Big," Sam finished. "Too big."

"Too damn big," Dean agreed.

"It's…freaking crazy," Sam added, his voice cracking with an edge of helpless _laugh or cry_ hysteria.

Dean looked over at Sam. His eyes were dry, but his face tight with emotion.

"I don't know what to do sometimes, Dean," he said. "Some nights…I'll go to sleep with all this…_weight_, y'know? It's like I can't breathe through it. And I fall asleep thinking...what happens next? What do I do next?"

_You look them in the eye. You don't flinch, you don't fail._

"You wake up," Dean said, he glanced away, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "You wake up and you fight."

He heard Sam sniff, the shocks of the car creaking as his brother shifted, James Hetfield resolutely declaring that nothing else mattered.

"You still think it's gonna end bloody, though, don't you?" Sam asked. "You don't think we're gonna make it out of this fight?"

Dean sighed tiredly. His body was ticking down, but he wasn't ready to leave. Not yet.

"Yeah," he said. "I do think it's gonna end bloody. And…I don't know if we can make it out." He took a breath, searching for the words. "Demons…I get. We've wasted their asses on more than one occasion. But…the _Devil_ wants your ass…I got an Archangel after mine and God?" He shrugged. "I don't know, Sam. It's bigger than anything we've faced before." He took a sip of his beer, staring at the ground. "But that doesn't mean we give up, man. We just…learn to fight bigger. Right?"

Sam peered at him through his bangs. "Will you think I'm a pussy if I tell you I'm scared? Like…all the time?"

"A pussy?" Dean glanced sideways at his brother. "Are you kidding? After you…latinated a couple hundred demons into another dimension?"

Sam's grin was contagious. "You were pretty bad-ass yourself, man."

"Yeah, I was, wasn't I?" Dean chuckled appreciatively. "Eat your heart out, John McClain."

They were quiet a moment as the tape ended, rolling over to the other side.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," Sam said, his voice warm. "Y'know. For saving my life."

Dean looked at him, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. "You're my brother, Sammy," he replied, hoping the words were enough to hold everything he couldn't say.

Sam met his eyes, the smile lingering there not cresting his lips. And as the night took hold and Bobby called them inside for food and Sam shut off the Impala, Dean knew that the fight wouldn't end, and no matter what his father said in his dream, there was no winning. There was only just losing a little bit less.

But in this moment, on this night, he hadn't lost what mattered most. They hadn't taken it from him yet.

That was reason enough to keep fighting.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **Thank you for reading. And thank you for your comments. You guys give me a reason. *smile* Some of you might have noticed that Bobby is sans wheelchair in this fic. *nods* Yep, pretty much pretending that didn't happen for the purposes of this story.

**Playlist: **Since fanficdotnet is so finicky about links, head over to my LJ at http[colon][backslash][backslash]gaelicspirit[dot]livejournal[dot]com and check out the link to an original soundtrack/fanmix collected by yours truly to fit this story. It includes songs referenced in the story as well as songs I thought fit both the plot and Dean's personal struggle throughout the story.

The soundtrack was compiled by **secretlytodream** and she has created some beautiful (dark) art for each song. If you check out the soundtrack, please take a moment to let her know how amazing it is.

I'll be back.


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